PATIENT
by harpomarx
Summary: House's minions find a new patient who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of A Gentle Knock at the Door. Part of the Contract universe. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

* * *

**Chapter 1:**** Clinic Duty**

**Setting: **Three months after the beginning of _A Gentle Knock at the Door. It's late summer._

Inhale. Wince. Exhale. Flinch. Grimace. Rinse. Repeat.

At 7:28 on a sticky hot Monday morning, James Wilson sat in the big, plush recliner and watched anxiously as his friend slept. If you could call it sleep. Someone in that much pain could never get the refreshing REM sleep the body needs to repair itself. But it was the only real rest Gregory House was likely to get, now or ever.

Throughout the early morning, every morning, as the soft light filtered dust motes through the venetian blinds into the room, Wilson had no choice but to watch. Riveted to the irregular breathing pattern, he believed that if he didn't focus closely, one dawn something would shift, the pattern would change, the breathing would stop altogether. And it would be all his fault, because he hadn't paid close enough attention.

_I'm not trained for this_, he thought, and not for the first time. He was trained to give bad news, to read biopsy reports, to cut out the cancers before they killed his patients and to hold their hands when nothing else worked. He wasn't trained to watch his demolished friend sleep, to tread carefully, to be hyper-sensitive to every perceived danger, to see progress in such slow increments that they were nearly impossible to appreciate… to feel this overwhelmed. _But it's better, right?_, he thought.

As his mind drifted, he remembered the moment nearly a year after House had returned to him, when hope had crept in. He'd been in the kitchen, washing dishes, when he thought he heard a noise in the living room. Turning off the water, he listened closely, anticipating a pained moan… the only sound House allowed himself for the many months during which he had retreated deep inside.

No, nothing. He turned the water back on only to hear the sound again. Water off, he grabbed a dishtowel and padded cautiously on stocking feet through the dining room and into the living room.

House sat, as he always did, staring straight ahead, back as ramrod straight as his crumpled form could manage, not even allowing himself to lean back against the sofa cushions. The television was on, muted, but House wasn't looking at it. He never looked at it. Convinced the sound came from his imagination or some bird outside the window, Wilson returned to the kitchen, but just as he reached to turn on the faucet once more, the sound filtered through again, a slight echo bouncing off the plain walls. This time, leaving the water running, he ran softly toward it. When he got to the living room, he saw House staring, not at the blank wall, but at the television, where Wilson was startled to see the disturbing image of a man in prison—some grainy, black-and-white film, now deemed safe for children because it contain no graphic sex or bloody violence—grasping the bars of a prison window, looking out at angry faces surging toward him.

A fearful cry escaped House's mouth, and Wilson saw a solitary tear tip over his lower right eyelid and slowly roll down his cheek, catching on his lower lip before bouncing off onto his chin.

As upsetting as that moment was, with its forcible realization of what House had been through, the fact that House reacted to the image on the screen and allowed himself to respond with a cry and a tear, gave Wilson more hope than he'd had in at least six years. Speaking softly, he attempted to reassure his friend that here, at least, no one could harm him. Although it would have been better if House had laughed instead of cried, it was progress. Wilson's emotions spilled over into his own tears of relief as he swallowed sobs and returned to the kitchen to finish the dishes.

Not long after that, House decided the secure environment Wilson had struggled to create for him was safe enough to return to.

And here they were, many months later. Amazingly, House was back to work part-time, reclaiming his life and his career, occasionally sharing his experiences with others, allowing himself to open up and even to help another fractured soul.

Maybe even if Wilson didn't pay close attention every minute, it might be okay.

Inhale. Moan. Exhale. Clench teeth. Rinse. Repeat.

* * * *

Pain. Physical pain. Emotional pain. Surrounding, enveloping, drowning him.

The ceiling was his friend. Counting the small, irregular bumps, creating patterns in his mind as if he were still a child staring at the sky and imagining dragons in the clouds, he left his pathetic attempts at sleep behind. The ceiling helped.

He'd said he would go to work today, so the pain didn't matter. Had to be put aside, ignored.

With an effort, Greg House pulled his arm out from under the warm comfort of his covers, roughly shoving away the bedclothes.

There. That was a start.

Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

He heard soft voices in the living room, smelled the gourmet coffee just brewed. What he felt didn't bear dwelling on.

Turning his body slowly, he shifted so his shoulder bore his weight for a moment as he pushed off from the pillow and the bed.

Sitting.

Okay.

Moving the rest of the bedclothes out of his way, he twisted his waist and began the laborious process of swinging his legs off the bed and toward the floor.

Pain. Sharp, excruciating, mind-numbing pain hit him.

Didn't matter.

No, he wasn't going to throw up.

He was going to go to work.

* * * *

"Ready?"

Short, grim, abrupt nod.

"Let's do it, then."

Grunt. Heave.

Good. He's upright.

Relief. Settled into the wheelchair.

There was no way this was going to be anything less than a hell of a day. Might as well get it started so it could be over with that much sooner.

* * * *

In the clinic, Devi Rajghatta grabbed the intake form for the next patient and headed toward Exam Room 3.

Opening the door, she saw a tall, middle-aged man sitting uncomfortably on the end of the paper-covered exam table.

"Good morning. What seems to be the problem today?" she asked.

Although her eyes were focused on the file, Devi's mind was elsewhere. Only another hour, and then she'd return to the office down the hall. For the first time in several weeks, her boss would be sitting at his desk. What kind of shape would he be in? Since she'd first met him, a year back, he'd been fragile, ever so slowly getting better, but never what you might call well. How could he be? After years of torture, both mental and physical, he was a shell of a man. And now, after again being murderously attacked, this time by another doctor in a vindictive rage, what would he look like? Could he be any worse than before? How carefully would they have to tread, fearful of setting off another bout of PTSD?

"I think it's… food poisoning." His voice was soft and slow.

For a moment, she was so far into her own thoughts she actually thought the voice belonged to House. But of course, House was nowhere near the clinic… and never would be again. She willed herself to make eye contact with this patient, to bring herself back into the exam room, to remember that this situation was the most important thing she needed to deal with right now. Something about the patient's pause caught her attention. The man looked gaunt and pale.

"Tell me your symptoms."

He paused again, embarrassed, hesitant, as if unwilling to tell the small, slim, dark woman that he'd spent days on the toilet, or that it was difficult it was to leave the safety of his bathroom to drive to the free clinic.

"Diarrhea and nausea," he said, reluctantly.

She looked up from the blue file folder.

"Any cramping?"

The man nodded.

"How long?"

"_Ummm_…. two weeks."

In the short time she'd worked with House, Devi Rajghatta had learned a few things. Therefore, she knew the man was lying. Not two weeks. More like two months.

She stared at him sharply. He looked away.

"Okay, a month."

Make it three months.

She paused.

"That's too long to be food poisoning."

Damn.

"What is it, then?"

He looked at her as if trying to decide if she really was old enough to be a doctor.

She paused again.

"I'm not sure. Have you seen any other doctors?"

The man nodded. "But they couldn't find anything." He didn't tell her he'd been going from clinic to clinic for months now… anything to avoid coming here.

Devi smiled what she believed was a reassuring smile.

"Well, sir, I think we'd better admit you and do some tests."

"Admit me? What kind of tests?"

"Blood work. We'll take some stool samples."

"I-I can't. I've got work to do."

He seemed embarrassed, not an unusual reaction when stool samples were mentioned.

"Sir, this could be serious. I'm afraid I'll have to insist," she said, moving closer to the patient.

She couldn't quite read the expression that flitted across the man's face. It might be panic. Or perhaps… anger?

"I promise we'll do our best to find out what's going on."

The man looked troubled.

"Would you be the one to work on my case?"

Devi nodded.

"Yes. And if necessary, the rest of my department. I'm in the Department of Diagnostic Medicine, so you'll be in good hands. It's our job to find the answer when no one else can. The head of our department is Dr. Gregory House—he's one of the best diagnosticians in the world."

The patient's head snapped up when she mentioned House.

"Uh… no. No! I'm… I'm fine."

Suddenly, to her great surprise, the man hopped off the exam table and ran out of the room before Devi had a chance to say more.

Sixty-three minutes and three patients (all with summer colds) later, the man forgotten, she returned to the conference room. Her colleagues, Eric Foreman and Robert Chase, were already ensconced at the table, files spread out in front of them.

She looked around. The office next door sat dark and empty.

"Is he…?" she asked hesitantly as she fixed herself a cup of tea. Perhaps he wasn't well enough to come in after all. Usually, she drank Darjeeling, but today chamomile seemed more soothing.

Chase nodded.

"He's here. In with Cuddy. Probably filling out paperwork after being out so long." Then, after pausing: "I'm sure he won't be feeling any better once he gets done with that."

Chase tended to keep his feelings to himself, especially when it came to House and what had happened, but occasionally, like now, Devi sensed an undercurrent. Maybe sadness, maybe wistfulness. Was he remembering how things used to be? Thinking, perhaps, of Cameron—her murdered predecessor?

"How does he seem… is he okay?" she asked.

His mood suddenly changing, Chase shook his head angrily before spitting out a few words.

"Of course he's not okay. He'll never be okay. But he's here." His brows were furrowed, his head jerked away, and he stared out the window.

Abruptly, Foreman spoke up, always eager to change the subject from the state of House's health and emotional stability.

"Anything interesting in the clinic today?" he asked.

Ah. The man with the diarrhea.

"Actually, yes. Something a little bit odd."

Chase looked up eagerly. He'd hoped that they'd land a good case the day House came back. Anything to avoid having to acknowledge the reality of their boss's condition. But the case files in front of him revealed nothing of interest.

"What?"

"Got a guy who's had diarrhea and cramping for at least a month. Probably more. He said he thought it was food poisoning, but of course it wasn't. I tried to admit him, but he kind of freaked out, and left before I had a chance to get very far."

"Freaked out?" asked Foreman, looking at her for the first time since she entered the room.

"Really?" said Chase at nearly the same instant. "Too bad. I was hoping we'd have something—something to keep us all occupied today."

Devi glanced at him, just as he looked away again. _Yes. Leave it to Chase to verbalize what we are all thinking: Anything to keep our minds occupied._

"Afraid not. He left the clinic. In quite a rush, I might add."

"Oh, well," said Chase, disappointed. Then, after thinking for a moment, he looked intently at Devi, picking up on Foreman's question. "What was so odd?"

"Well, it was only when he realized he'd have to deal with our department that he got weird and left."

This got Foreman's attention, if only for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"Probably someone who saw House in the clinic back … well, you know, _before_. Or heard about him from the tabloids and didn't want to see someone that messed up … not that House will ever go face-to-face with a patient again. But this guy probably didn't realize that."

Devi nodded. Just as she'd suspected.

"Too bad. He ought to get checked out. Maybe he'll go somewhere else. Hope so."

Foreman turned away from the table, uninterested. Of the three of them, he was the most reluctant to hear, or deal with, the reality of House's situation, and he tended to avoid all conversations about House's health and well-being… or, for that matter, anything even vaguely connected to his boss.

By the end of the day, the patient was long forgotten. House, moving slowly and hesitantly, had lasted barely till one before Wilson had insisted on taking him home. With nothing else to do, Foreman, Chase and Devi offered to help out in other departments—one of the advantages to the hospital of having three talented doctors who occasionally went days without much to do.

As soon as House left, Foreman practically ran out the door, leaving Diagnostics in his wake as he headed off to Neurology. Once there, though, he couldn't concentrate. His left foot beat a pattern on the floor, and his hands twitched, fingers drumming on any nearby surface. Not being an introspective man, he couldn't figure out why he was so agitated. He attributed it to too much coffee.

What it really came down to, what Foreman couldn't face, was that he had hugely mixed feelings about House. Although he now knew House had used that massively annoying façade to protect himself—as well as Wilson, Cuddy, Chase, Cameron, his own parents… and Foreman—from the horror that had overwhelmed his life, Foreman could barely remember the moments when House's brilliance has amazed him.

When the troubles began, the two had been at odds. Foreman had quite literally hated his boss, detested working for him, and had no patience for him or his methods. He wondered why once he'd seen his fellowship with House as a prize. All he could see were the games, the manipulations, the sharp meanness and emotional distance of the last few months before House was arrested for Cameron's murder.

As soon as he could line up something better, Foreman had intended to quit. But every time he got a job interview, his prospective employers had been interested in talking to him only because he worked with the great Gregory House, not because of his own achievements, which they didn't seem to find all that appealing. As it became obvious that each interviewer was much more concerned with finding out what he'd learned from House than in what he himself could contribute, the tide would turn. At some point during each interview, he would be unable to keep his resentment of House below a simmer. As soon as the interviewers picked up on his negative feelings, he would be ushered out the door.

Of course, after House was imprisoned, notoriety by association kicked in, and Foreman was a pariah in the medical field—unable to get a job even as an orderly. He was lucky that Cuddy had been willing to keep him on staff at PPTH, although he never really saw it that way, blaming his inability to move away on House himself, rather than on the terrible circumstances and his own resentment of how it all affected him personally.

His mind was full of conflict. Even though Foreman firmly believed House couldn't have killed Allison Cameron—no matter how much his personality had changed before the murder, he _knew_ in his gut that House wasn't a killer—Foreman still didn't actually like his former boss. It was as if his mind had two cupboards—one for House the victim, the non-murderer who had been imprisoned unjustly, and one for House the unadulterated, arrogant ass. And he was able to keep the door to the non-murderer cupboard successfully locked most of the time as he focused on the arrogant ass cupboard.

Then, the man came back a hero. And Foreman had to add another cupboard, a really large one for the man who had permitted violent maniacs to torture him nearly to death because it was the only way to secure the safety of those he cared about… including Eric Foreman. It was impossible for Foreman to reconcile the three versions of House that were rumbling around in his brain. And he especially couldn't accept that the arrogant ass had been willing to endure nonstop anguish to ensure that he, Foreman, would remain alive. In short, he had an extreme case of cognitive dissonance.

Fractured and quivering, a good three inches shorter than he'd been, thanks to repeated bone breaks during his tortured imprisonment, House was almost unrecognizable as the towering bastard Foreman had hated so much. Although he and Chase were no longer fellows in the department, House was still their supervisor and still had the uncanny ability to find the answers no one else could, a fact that bothered Foreman almost more than anything else. Since House had come back, the two had locked horns a few times, and Foreman found that underneath the jitteriness and frailty, House's massive intellect remain intact, as had his stubbornness.

It was painful and desperately uncomfortable to have House in the room next door, and Foreman secretly wished the man had never returned to work. It was much easier on the days when House was too ill to venture in, or on Tuesdays and Thursdays, his days off.

A few weeks after House's initial return to work, the part of Foreman's brain containing mixed feelings tipped over and crashed. It became harder and harder to pretend that House's sacrifice didn't affect him. During slow moments—and there were plenty of those—his imagination kept drifting, imagining House in prison, House being tortured, House screaming in pain, suffering the catastrophic injuries that garnished his face and hands… the injuries that confronted Foreman constantly not only every time he looked at the man but also in his dreams.

_Why do I feel so guilty?_ Foreman wondered. _I told people I knew he hadn't killed Cameron_.

_But House is still an ass, and I still don't like him_

These thoughts began to duke it out with others.

_He went through that agony to save your life,_ said a little part of him, a part that got louder and louder until it was screaming inside him_. You owe him. And if he was willing to go through all that for you, then perhaps he's not the man you think he is… perhaps you're wrong about him... perhaps you're wrong about a lot of things._

_You're wrong. _

_You're wrong._

_You're wrong._

Finally, late in the afternoon, Foreman felt a pain in his chest. _Indigestion_, he thought at first, but then the pain grew and grew. Heart attack? But when it radiated throughout his chest, left and right side, he knew it wasn't a heart attack. The pain continued to spread as his conflicting points of view about House argued in his head. And then, suddenly and dramatically, he began to quiver. Furious with himself, he struggled to shove all the unpleasant feelings back into their proper compartments. But they just refused to go back where they belonged. After a couple of hours of uncontrolled shaking, he left work and headed home.


	2. Chapter 2: Dry Spell

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

______________________________________________________

**Chapter 2**

**Dry Spell**

**Six Months Later—Winter**

A gentle knock at the door roused House from the journal sitting open in front of him.

"Come."

Lisa Cuddy slid through the door, gliding softly into the office.

"Anything interesting?"

House's eyes slid upward for just a fraction of a moment as his head wavered left and right.

"Nope. Not a thing. Dry spell."

"You okay with that?"

_No, not okay with that. Give me something to do. Anything. Anything to distract me from thinking about the pain. Fill up every second. I don't want to remember. I don't want to think. Give me something. Anything._

"Sure."

_Liar. Oh, well. What's another lie?_

Cuddy, determined not to show House the pity he so detested, reached out her hand.

"Come on. We're going to lunch."

He pulled back sharply, ducking his head and turning his eyes downward.

_Damn_, she thought. _When am I going to learn? No sudden movements. No… touching. They tell me he's much better around women than men—I guess no women assaulted him—but if this is how he is with women… how bad is he around men?_

"It's only 11 in the morning."

"So what? We'll go to breakfast. Or brunch. I'm hungry and you're bored. Let's get out of here for a while."

The corners of House's mouth turned ever so slightly upward in what now passed for a smile, and he heaved himself out of the chair and eased himself into the wheelchair.

"Where to?" she asked.

"Beats me? What are you in the mood for?"

_Beats me?_ Had he really said that? House winced. Even common phrases weren't safe, thrusting undesired images into his mind. He gritted his teeth, trying to force away the flashback that was charging toward him, threatening to overtake him. _No_, he thought, closing his eyes. _Not now. No_.

There was no way Cuddy could miss his reaction. In the old days, he'd have made some sort of sexual, offensive joke about "beats me." But now… now the look on his face gripped her. She forced herself to look away, refusing to draw attention to the flitting emotions on his face.

After a moment, she said, "House?" as softly as she could. "Are you…?"

"Fine. I'm fine," he said fiercely, opening his eyes and daring her to join him in keeping the conversation casual. "Not hungry. You're the one with a craving."

Cuddy got the message. _Change the subject. Anything to keep his mind busy. Anything to keep it off of his pain and his past._

"Okay. I'm craving Eggs Benedict. Let's go."

Reluctantly, House gave a curt nod and wheeled himself out of the office, following Cuddy to the elevator. _Nice view_, he thought. Then, bitterly: _Not that it matters._

* * * *

Clinic duty. With no intriguing patient to practice her nascent diagnostic skills on, Devi welcomed clinic hours. Stuffy noses, rashes, broken bones, coughs, eye infections, allergic reactions all filled the minutes until something more challenging came along.

_Exam Room 2. _

"My fingers tingle."

The young woman sat looking perplexed and concerned. Dressed in black jeans, a black camisole and black jacket, a few tattoos peeking out from above her breasts, down her arms and up her neck, she was pierced and adorned with heavy silver jewelry dangling from her ears, off her arms and fingers and through her nose and visible on her tongue.

Devi suppressed a smile.

"One hand or both?"

"Just the left."

"And, _umm_, how long has this been going on?" Devi asked, reaching out for the woman's left arm.

"Oh, I guess it's been, I don't know, about three weeks."

She looked worried.

"Do you think it could be anything serious?"

"Probably not. Tell me: Do your fingers tingle more at certain times of day?"

The slim woman tossed her long hair out of her face, gazing at the stethoscope around Devi's neck as she thought.

"Funny you should mention that. Yes. It seems to get worse as the day goes on."

"Is this new?" Devi asked, pointing at the heavy, skull-encrusted, Goth watch adorning the woman's left wrist.

Inspiration dawned.

"Oh, God!" she replied, rolling her eyes.

Devi nodded.

"`Fraid so. It's too tight and too heavy—it's cutting off circulation."

A pink blush colored the woman's neck, rising quickly up past a tattoo of some indiscriminate violence to her cheekbones.

"Go back to your old watch and you should be fine."

_Exam Room 4._

"He's got a fever."

The young mother, clearly a first-timer, looked panicky.

Devi looked closely at the little boy sitting in his mother's lap.

"How high?"

"It's 101," she replied, "but he's never had a fever before."

After settling on a quick diagnosis of too many clothes in a warm building, Devi sent the mother on her way.

Just as she was about to enter Exam Room 3, nurse Brenda Previn touched her arm.

"Dr. Rajghatta? There's a man in Five who wants to see you—said he'd been in before."

Switching folders, Devi headed to Exam Room 5 to find herself with an odd sense of _déjà vu_. It was the tall man from five—or was it six?—months earlier, the one with diarrhea, the one she'd completely forgotten a few hours after she'd met him. He looked thinner than before.

"I—_uh_—don't know if you remember me," he stuttered.

"Why, yes," she said, smiling now that his face jogged her memory. "I do. I'd been hoping you got treatment somewhere."

He wouldn't meet her gaze.

"I did," he mumbled, sounding annoyed. "But it didn't help… it's worse."

* * * *

Devi stared at the whiteboard. House would be pleased. It might be something rare. The symptoms were ambiguous enough, but there seemed to be something seriously wrong.

It took her most of the morning to convince the patient to allow her to admit him. The man resisted the whole way, clearly wanting nothing to do with her department or in particular, her boss. He got squirmy every time she mentioned House. Damn the press anyway.

_Diarrhea._

_Abdominal pain._

_Weight loss._

_Fever._

_Joint pain._

She thought that if she stared at the words long enough, perhaps a pattern would emerge.

"Looks pretty vague to me."

Devi looked up to see Robert Chase come through the door carrying a candy bar and a cup of hot chocolate.

"I thought so, too," said Devi, "but it's been going on for months and it's getting worse."

"Interesting. What did House say?"

Devi shook her head.

"He hasn't seen it yet. Finally got the guy admitted and House is out somewhere with Cuddy."

Chase's head tilted slightly and his eyes narrowed. She should have known he was going to pick up on that—Chase was sharp, even if he did cover it up with his Australian surfer-dude act.

"What do you mean _finally_?"

Devi sighed. "Remember the clinic guy—it was about six months ago—who freaked out when I mentioned House's name?"

Chase shrugged. "No, not really."

"Doesn't matter. But this is the same guy. He's got a few new symptoms, and I just admitted him."

"Still freaked out?"

"Oh, yes. You should have seen his reaction every time I mentioned House's name."

Chase felt his stomach clench. It was clear that House would never get past what had been done to him, but Chase hadn't really come to terms with the fact that he wouldn't either.

No amount of talking to a shrink changed the fact that still—daily, weekly, sometimes hourly—his imagination wandered to images of Cameron pleading for her life as House struggled in vain to save her, forced to watch as his cane was used to beat her to death. Or of House being tortured repeatedly, day after day—stuck in a cold, dank cell knowing he would face this kind of torment for the rest of his life—just so the lives of those he cared for (_cared for—House!_) would be spared.

He couldn't help it. That knot in the pit of him ground and churned every time House came in, wheeling in his chair or struggling to use a walker. On some level, he had gotten used to the new House—this fragile, fractured, frail creature who used to terrify him—but on a primordial level, his soul consistently twisted itself around the truth of the situation and slapped him in the face.

As if on cue, Chase bit back a gasp as House slowly and diffidently entered the room, shielding himself from sudden movements or loud voices.

"What have we got?" came the raspy voice. For the first time in months, Chase found himself riveted to that scar across House's throat, wondering how it came to be, and how anyone could inflict that kind of injury. The scar that had so damaged the man's vocal chords, he could barely speak. It started just under his chin and wiggled across his throat before shooting down toward his shoulder. Someone had taunted House as that wound was inflicted, teasing it across his throat, threatening to go deeper and wider. Perhaps it would have been a merciful relief for everyone if the tormenter had just dug into the jugular and ended things right then.

It was the voice that really got to Chase, almost more than the visual evidence. House's voice now bore almost no relation to its former glory. Once upon a time, it was vibrant and fluid and expressive. Now it was barely a whisper, with almost no inflection, the ability to produce any sound at all an extreme effort.

Chase struggled to find his own voice, his eyes darting away looking—where?—anywhere but at his boss's throat.

"_Uh… _it's Raja's case. She should tell you_,_" he managed to get out, turning quickly away to fix himself a cup of coffee… coffee he suddenly realized he didn't need because he already had hot chocolate sitting on the conference table.

"Making mocha?" came the soft voice behind him.

Chase felt his heart pound. Fragile he might be, but House's powers of observation hadn't diminished. It was piercing—almost as if he knew what was going on in Chase's head. Oh, well. Might as well pretend. No use making a public issue out of his own inability to cope with the situation.

"Yup," he replied, nodding, refusing to look over his shoulder.

"So, Raja, about this patient...?" came the soft voice.

Relieved, Chase slowly let out his breath.

* * * *

The patient stared at the ceiling, his teeth gritted and his lips pursed. An annoyed breath forced its way out through his teeth.

He shouldn't have let that girl admit him. He shouldn't be here. Not here. Surely one of those other clinics could have been able to figure it out. But no, they couldn't. They kept telling him it was a simple bacterial infection. Antibiotics had helped briefly, but then he kept losing weight, spending half his life on the toilet.

As he stared upward, a face drifted into view, the one from his imagination. House's face. Damn if he'd let that man anywhere near him. He knew—_knew_—what would happen if he did. And yet, what choice did he have? Apparently the bastard really was that good, and no one else would be able to figure this out. Fuck. Irony sucked.

* * * *

"Patient history?"

Devi looked up, not quite focusing on her boss' battered face.

"On my way."

She rose from the table, clipboard in hand.

So they had a patient, one whose misty symptoms were enough to intrigue House. She headed down the hall toward the patient's room.

* * * *

Back in the Diagnostics office, the phone rang.

"Foreman," whispered House, jerking his head toward his office. "Your turn."

With Devi off getting the patient history and Chase in the lab, no one else was here to pick up the phone, because House just wasn't fast enough.

"Dr. House's office. Oh, hi, Linda."

_Cuddy really should get House a wireless phone_, thought Foreman, making a mental note to email her with a request. Then House could carry it in his lap and answer it himself, and Foreman wouldn't have to be the lackey. He had more important things to do than answer House's phone. What those important things were he couldn't quite say, but he knew he should be doing more important things than this.

Slowly, some of his many issues with House were floating to the surface. Rather than making him feel better, he became more and more agitated and uneasy as those painful thoughts thrust themselves into his line of sight. Over time, his old resentment and dislike of his former boss had surged back, stronger than before. So far, though, Foreman held close tight his resentments and anger, convincing himself that no one knew how he felt, that _House_ didn't know. Not surprisingly, he underestimated his boss.

Linda McAllister was House's part-time caregiver, who now stayed at the duplex most days to keep an eye on Rainie Adler, the patient House had chosen to devote most of his energies to in the last few months. Foreman had avoided meeting Rainie—he couldn't quite bring himself to see another victim of Robert Thompson's vendetta. It was hard enough to look at—or avoid looking at—House on a regular basis.

"House. Linda wants to talk to you."

House was already on his way, slowly maneuvering from the conference room to his office.

"Gimme," he said, reaching out his hand.

Still the same old House. No amenities. Abrupt and rude. Despite everything that had happened.

As soon as he handed the phone off, Foreman strode quickly back into the conference room, rolling his eyes. Chase, who had wandered back in during this interchange, noticed the look and tossed a query in Foreman's direction. "Rude," said Foreman simply, rolling his eyes again. A flare of something resembling anger flashed across Chase's face. He grabbed Foreman by the arm and all but dragged him into the hall where House couldn't overhear him.

"What?!" he hissed. "So he's rude. Did it ever dawn on you that maybe just talking is an effort for the man?" Foreman started as competing ideas began to race around in his head. No, actually, it hadn't crossed his mind. It did now, though. Perhaps for House, please and thank-you were no longer words House chose to avoid; they were words that wore him out, made his day shorter and his pain greater. He needed his energy for his job. Anything that took away from his ability to do his job had to be eliminated. This newfound understanding didn't change the fact that Foreman felt dismissed and diminished when House was abrupt with him.

"Yeah, fine. Got it," said Foreman irritably, shrugging Chase off and striding back inside with Chase on his heels, in time to hear House say, "Yes?"

Now that House had been exonerated and was considered a hero, Foreman was biding his time, knowing that once he put in another year under House's so-called tutelage, he'd be primed for a great job elsewhere. Couldn't come soon enough. And yet, the fact that Foreman's professional future was still intertwined with House bothered Foreman in a deep, unsettling way.

"Uh-huh," he heard. "Fever's still up? Okay. Wilson will be dragging me out of here shortly."

So, he'd be leaving early _again_.

Foreman sighed dramatically and sat down at the table. When his gaze crossed Chase's, he saw his colleague glaring at him again.

"What?" he asked, beginning to get pissed off. "_Now _what's the matter?"

"What's the big sigh for, as if I couldn't guess?"

Foreman snorted. "He's outta here early again, that's all. If he's not going to put in a full day, why does he even bother?" Foreman made no attempt to speak quietly, almost as if he hoped House would overhear him.

Chase looked flummoxed, his mouth opening and shutting for a few seconds like a gasping fish. Then he shook it off, and leaned across the table, gripped Foreman wrist and began speaking softly. "Do you even pay attention?" he whispered. "What kind of diagnostician are you that you can't observe your own surroundings and draw conclusions from them? Have you noticed how he spends his days? No games, no porn, no soaps. Not anymore. Just business. That's because those things take too much energy and he just doesn't have it. Plus, when he goes home, he's got the Rainie Adler case, so he's still working when he gets there, _and _on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when he works from home. He puts in his time, Foreman. He puts in his time."

Foreman yanked his wrist away from Chase grasp, leaned back in his chair and stewed for a moment as he unwillingly pondered what Chase had said. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, somewhere buried in his subconscious he had noticed that it was Wilson, not House, who determined when House had had enough. House, if Foreman were honest with himself, would have stayed the whole day, catching up on the latest journals and browsing the Internet for medical breakthroughs. And if Foreman had been a little more observant, he might already have noticed the quality of the days House put in.

But a part of Foreman wasn't quite ready to see things that way.

* * * *

Late in the afternoon, Devi sat trying to sort out the information from the patient history. A few new symptoms—fatigue, weakness, anemia—were added to those on the board.

She stared at the symptoms for nearly an hour before she heard the door open behind her and smelled gourmet coffee and Foreman's cologne.

"It's still pretty vague," he said as he sat the coffee down at the far end of the table.

"I know," she sighed. "Maybe the labs will tell us something."

"How's the guy doing? Still jumpy when he hears House's name?"

Devi nodded. "Every time I come into the room, he looks startled, then relieved, when he sees it's just me."

Foreman felt the need to instruct. After all, he'd been with House longer than she had, even if she had worked for the man for nearly a year now. "Did you explain that House doesn't see patients?"

Devi paused before answering. In general, she was even-tempered, but sometimes Foreman pushed her buttons. _Of course_ she'd explained it. She wasn't stupid, even if Foreman seemed determined to imply that she was.

"Yes," was all she said, trying to keep her tone even. "That didn't seem to help. He's still agitated. He'd obviously rather not be here. I keep thinking I'll go in and find out he's left AMA."

Foreman shrugged. "Too bad for him if he does."

That was too much. Devi felt herself flush with annoyance.

"Do you really not care about the patients, or do you just find it easier to keep yourself at arm's length from everything?"

It was so seldom that Devi got ruffled, Foreman was momentarily at a loss. Was she comparing his attitude toward patients with House's?

"I… _uh_…"

Just as he was formulating a response that would address the issue and still keep everything status quo, Chase strolled in and, conveniently, at the same time, the phone rang.

Saved by the bell.

"Diagnostics."

"Uh, Foreman?"

"Yes?"

"It's Dr. Wilson. We've got some issues here. House won't be back in today… You guys are on your own."

Chase would have expressed concern, and Devi would have asked if there was anything she could do, but Foreman merely processed the information.

"Fine," he said. "I'll tell the others."

Just as he was about to hang up, he was stopped by Wilson's voice drawing him back.

"Foreman? Still there? Good. House says to tell you that Devi is the lead on this one. It's her case. You two assist. Got it?"

Oh, he got it all right. House was making sure he knew he wasn't in charge. He didn't like it, but he got it. Didn't mean he had to mention it to the others, though. He preferred believing that when House was away, he was the boss—even though Chase had seniority—but the truth of the matter was that neither House nor Cuddy seemed to see things that way. They behaved as if he still had things to learn.

* * * *

The patient looked away as Devi stuck his arm for the blood draw. It's not that he was squeamish, he told himself. It's just that he didn't want her to see his expression. She'd already noticed how he responded whenever she mentioned House's name, so he decided to keep his reactions to himself.

His mind drifted back to the night the story unfolded. Gregory House, world-famous diagnostician, had been arrested for a particularly vicious murder. He'd killed his subordinate, Allison Cameron, in a bout of drug-induced bloody violence. As the details were released, exhilaration had burbled up inside him. Finally. The son-of-a-bitch was getting what was coming to him. When he thought of what awaited House in prison, he couldn't contain his sense of anticipation.

For several years, he basked in satisfaction… until the truth came out.

Now… well, now. It was only a matter of time before it all burst, if he had to stay here. If House had to treat him. As soon as House saw him, remembered who he was, it would all be over.

_Odd_, thought Devi, as she gently removed the syringe from the man's arm, surreptitiously watching the unsettling grin on the patient's face morph into something almost demonic. _Very odd._

* * * *

Once she'd gotten the patient history and the blood work, Devi finished putting together the patient files, handing one to Foreman and another to Chase as they settled themselves at the table.

"What the fuck?!" yelled Foreman as he stared at the name on the file, slamming his palm to the table.

"You have _got_ to be shitting me!" gasped Chase at the same instant.

"What? What is it?" asked Devi, alarmed. Over the past year, she'd seen Foreman annoyed and Chase flabbergasted, but she'd never seen either of them like this. They both looked as if someone had whacked them in the gut with a two-by-four.

"It's got to be someone else. It's _got _to," said Chase. Foreman nodded at him mutely, while Devi looked on, dazed.

* * * *

Clearly, something was terribly wrong, but she had no idea what it might be. All she knew was that the man in room 212 was sick, his condition was deteriorating and everyone was acting very strangely. He'd developed a low-grade fever, a slight hearing loss and mild nystagmus. She needed House and she knew it. Whatever was happening was beyond her. And yet something—maybe it was the odd hesitance of the patient, or the vehement reactions from Foreman and Chase—kept her from calling House at home to talk about the case.

"What's wrong with me?" asked the patient, who was becoming increasingly agitated.

Determined to keep him calm, she spoke slowly and carefully, plastering a reassuring smile on her face.

"We're not completely sure yet, but we're working on it. We're going to need to run a few more tests."

Her answer didn't satisfy him.

"If you can't figure this out, I'm leaving. I know what's really going on here. It's him, isn't it? I won't let him screw with me."

Devi laid her hand on his forearm, only to have him shrug her away.

"Please," she pleaded. "No one's screwing with you. Just give us more time."

"No! He's screwing with me, and you know it. I'm going. Now."

As she reached out to try to stop him, the patient ignored her protests. He shrugged her off, got out of the bed, headed to the tiny closet near the room's bathroom, grabbed his clothes, pulled them on and left the room. After she trailed down the hall after him, feeling vaguely foolish for begging him to stay, he signed the AMA papers and walked out the front door of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

*** * * ***

Back in the office, Chase and Foreman sat quietly. Foreman's stomach twisted. From the look on Chase's face, he knew that he wasn't the only one who was appalled to learn the identity of Devi's patient.

A few minutes later, Devi returned, looking upset.

"He checked himself out AMA." Just as she'd feared.

Foreman let out a quick huff of relief. _It's better this way_, he thought. Better that House never find out who had been a patient in their department.

"Don't tell House," he heard Chase say to Devi. "Don't tell him who it was."

"Why?" asked Devi. "Who is this man?"

Foreman found his voice.

"Let's just say it will upset him. A lot. He doesn't need to know. Just… just don't tell him."

They left it at that.

*** * * ***

It was one of those awful nights to be an oncologist. He'd just returned from seeing the Kilbraiths through the death of their three-year-old daughter, and Wilson was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Driving through the empty, snowy streets of Princeton at 2 a.m., he couldn't help seeing Alanis Kilbraith's thin face before him as he relived the moment two hours earlier when she'd breathed her last breath.

_Not tonight_, he thought. _I just can't face it tonight._ He toyed with the idea of slipping unnoticed into his side of the duplex and crawling into bed, probably fully clothed—he was _that _tired. If he'd been honest with himself, he would have had to admit that he hated this, hated seeing House so fragile, hated being the responsible one, hated having to be strong… sometimes even hated House for upsetting his life so much.

As he pulled into the drive, he wasn't surprised to see light showing faintly through the curtains and blinds on House's half of the duplex. Neither Greg House nor Rainie Adler slept well, so it wasn't unusual to find them awake at all hours of the day.

In the old days, the idea of caring for House had a very different meaning for Wilson. It had meant nagging and nudging and hoping that his advice would sink in. But that was the old days. Now it was different. Very different. For one thing, during the years House spent in prison, Wilson had looked inward for the first time in his life, to really think about what his friendship with House had been and had meant. Hours spent in therapy helped him come to terms with his own motives and behavior—with the fact that although he'd thought he was helping House, the truth was that all the nagging and nudging was really more for him than for House. Although he loved House's outrageous behavior, it also embarrassed him, and sometimes he wanted House to be more normal. By condescending to his friend, by feeling superior to House, he felt needed and important. In a way, he had manufactured a need so that he could "fix" it and thereby feel good about himself.

Over the past two years, when House actually did need him desperately just to survive, Wilson was able to be more selfless, to put House's real needs ahead of his own, for the most part. That didn't mean that he was angelic about it. It was painfully difficult to see House as he was now, and there were many times he wanted out. On those occasions, when it was just too much for him, James Wilson felt guilty. Tonight was one of those nights. God, he wanted a drink.

Habit and guilt won out. He knew if he didn't poke his head in, he'd fret the night away, wondering if House or Rainie needed anything—meds, food, comfort. Either way, he wouldn't sleep.

When Wilson dragged himself to the door, cracking it open, he saw House propped up on one end of the long couch. His patient, Rainie Adler, sat at the other, her back to the front door. The orange glow of the television flickered, but neither was looking toward the screen. Something inside Wilson collapsed, and he was tempted to sneak right back out again, before they saw him.

Wilson heard a hiccupped whimper from Rainie. As Rainie had begun to recover physically from her ordeal, emotions had trickled to the surface, sometimes triggered by a simple phrase, a color, a sound, a scent or by nothing at all. Evidently, she was having one of her many bad nights.

Steeling himself, he eased into the room, quietly announcing his presence. "House? Rainie?" he whispered as he gently closed the door behind him, careful not to startle them.

Rainie's head whipped around toward him, her eyes red with crying. For a moment, her breath caught until she recognized his face in the dim light.

"Oh… James. Hello," she breathed, sighing. Even after all these months, she still reacted as if every sudden movement or loud noise was a threat.

"Hi, you two."

After a couple of hours, after Rainie had cried herself out, she hobbled off to her bedroom, leaving House and Wilson alone and drowsy in the living room. The lights of the television continued to flicker, the sound still off.

"She's getting better," Wilson said finally. "You're helping."

House's gaze drifted to the right and then seemed focused on something terribly interesting on the floor.

"I doubt it," he muttered. "All I do is listen."

"Listening helps."

"Nothing helps."

"No, really. Listening helps."

"If you say so."

Wilson scrutinized his friend's face.

"I do say so."

House shrugged. "The past… never goes away. We never get beyond it. It just… recedes a little with time."

Five minutes later, Wilson was asleep. House wasn't.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3: Old News

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

______________________________________________________

**Chapter 3**

**Old News**

**Two Weeks Later**

Lying sprawled across his Eames chair, his mangled legs stretched out on the ottoman, House dozed restlessly, faint groans of pain escaping with every other breath. In the next room, his staff pretended that they heard nothing, that they were used to it… but, of course, they weren't. No one could be, any more than they could get used to seeing their boss's carved-up face or damaged body.

When the phone rang, Chase jumped up to answer it before the ringing woke their boss. He listened for a moment, then handed the phone across the table to Devi before returning to the discharge paperwork on their latest patient. Foreman flipped through the pages of the most recent issue of _JAMA_.

"I'll be right there," Chase heard Devi say as she stood up. Something about her tone of voice made him look up.

"Hey, what's up?" he asked.

"He's back," said Devi, looking uncomfortable.

"Who? Who's back?"

Devi took a breath.

"The AMA guy." Then, after glancing at House to make sure he was still asleep, she added in a whisper: "The one who freaked you two out."

At this, Foreman drew in a breath. If Devi hadn't looked up at just that moment, she might not have noticed the flicker of alarm in his eyes.

"He's back?"

"Yes. Just brought in by ambulance. Had a seizure."

"Hmmmm," murmured Chase thoughtfully. "So he really is sick."

_What an odd thing to say_, thought Devi. In fact, everything about this guy and this case was turning out to be odd.

* * * *

At the elevator, Devi saw Chase hurrying to catch up with her. She turned and stood her ground. "You can't keep this from him," she said. "Whoever he is, and whatever he's done, you can't hide it from House forever."

Chase brushed a lock of blond hair away from his eyes.

"I-I know it, Raja. I know. But… well, you weren't here. You don't know..."

"Why did you say what you said—'So he really is sick?'" It had stuck in her mind, replaying itself for the past five minutes. She couldn't figure out what it was about the symptoms that might make Chase think this was malingerer.

He looked down, thinking about his answer before replying. Finally, he looked up, although his eyes never met hers.

"I know this man. He's bad news. And he's dangerous to House. I just—I just wouldn't put it past him to fake an illness to get at House."

"But… he seems to be afraid of House."

Chase shrugged. "Yeah, well," he said. "All I know is that House is going to be upset. And if he's upset, we're upset."

He turned back toward the office, leaving Devi at the elevator more confused than ever.

* * * *

The patient looked even thinner than before. What was it? What had caused this? And what was the big mystery? Why were Chase and Foreman so desperate to keep House from finding out who this man was? Chase seemed to think the guy was dangerous to House—could he be someone connected with the awful time… when House was being tortured? And yet her patient seemed as afraid of House as Chase was of him. As if anyone could be afraid of her boss, in his fragile condition.

Well, at the rate things were going, House was bound to find out. The list of symptoms continued to grow; since the patient had been brought in, the whiteboard was filling up. Now the guy had a cough and enlarged lymph nodes. And none of the three of them could figure out what was making him sick. It wouldn't be too long before they had no choice but to show House the file. Then he'd know who the patient was and the mystery would come unraveled.

This time around, the patient was no longer fighting it. He was too sick.

"Why did you come back?" asked Devi, when he woke up. Nearly overcome with curiosity, she was hoping he'd give her a clue to the big unknown.

The patient turned away, angrily mumbling his answer. "No one else could help."

"Are you sure?" she asked, trying to be sympathetic. "Where else have you gone?"

Suddenly, he stared her right in the eye. "Where haven't I gone?" he asked, bitterly. "Princeton General, Manhattan Medical Center, Newark Memorial. Even Philadelphia. Everywhere in a 100-mile radius."

"And they couldn't find the answer?"

The man glared at her. "Would I be here if they could?"

"Surely, if you feel that strongly about it, someone else could have…"

He cut her off. "No. No one knows what the hell is going on! They all kept saying the same thing. Gotta see House. _House_ is the only one who can save you. House, House, _House!_" He spat out House's name as if it were a curse. "Do you think I'd let that son-of-a-bitch anywhere near me if I had any choice?"

Devi waited a moment before speaking.

"I mentioned it before, but maybe you don't remember. He won't be seeing you in person… if that helps."

"Oh, sure," he said sarcastically. She ducked as he waved his arms angrily in her direction. "Don't think you can lie to me, Dr. Raj-Raj…" He stared, baffled, at her nametag.

"Rajghatta." She articulated it carefully, something she'd gotten used to over the years.

"Rajghatta," he repeated. "You must not have worked here very long. I know this man. He can't wait to get at me. He's having a wet dream right now, thinking of ways to get even with me."

Devi stared at him. If Chase and Foreman weren't acting so strangely, she'd think the man was deranged.

"Are you serious? We haven't even told him you're a patient here."

"You're lying," he said.

She took a step back, stunned. No patient had ever accused her of lying, and she was at a loss. "N-no. I'm not. He really doesn't know."

The patient seemed to consider this a moment, then reject it. He glared at her before saying, "I don't believe it, but if it's true and if you're any kind of doctor, you won't tell him. You'll protect me from him. He's dangerous."

* * * *

Inhale. Wince. Exhale. Flinch. Grimace. Rinse. Repeat.

Wilson found House asleep on the Eames chair in his office.

Gradually, House opened one eye, as if the effort to lift his eyelid was almost more than he could bear.

"Hey, sleeping beauty."

A hint of a smile crossed House's face as he forced the other eye open.

Five minutes later, Wilson had returned to his own office and House had wheeled himself into the now-empty Diagnostics conference room. For a moment, he stared at the whiteboard. Then he moved softly toward the conference table, picking up the blue folder left behind by Foreman.

When he saw the name at the top of the file, a peculiar smile crept across his face. He began to chuckle. The chuckle quickly turned into a chortle. He was still laughing when Chase, Foreman and Raja came into the room 30 seconds later.

Frozen, they stared at their boss, who continued to laugh as he became aware of their presence in the room. It was strange enough to hear House laugh, but then, when Chase realized that House was waving their patient's folder at them… and that he knew who the patient was, it became even stranger.

"House…" began Foreman, taking a step forward.

"Irony's a bitch, isn't it?" was all his boss said, as he threw the folder back down on the table.

"We didn't want you to find out this way…" Chase began.

The laugh abruptly ended.

"And how exactly did you expect me to find out?" asked House, his blue eyes piercing Chase, making him squirm. And then, without waiting for an answer, House re-focused his attention on the whiteboard symptoms, as if this were any other patient. "So, what have you come up with?"

This was not the reaction Foreman and Chase expected.

"Y-you're not upset?" asked Chase. "We thought…"

"No, you didn't," interrupted House. "You didn't think. If you had thought, you'd have realized how unimportant he is. Why should I care that he's my patient? Differential diagnosis, people."

"But…" Foreman spluttered.

"I _said_, differential diagnosis. Let's find out what he's got, so we can treat him and get him out of here."

Chase and Foreman sat down abruptly, looking dazed, leaving Devi standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"HIV?" she offered tentatively. "Or endocarditis. Maybe macroglobulinemia."

"Gold star, Raja," said House, "for being the only one here willing to do their job. Run away like a good little girl and do some tests. HIV would be ironic, but then, irony is running rampant here, isn't it?"

Devi left the room, still wondering why House had laughed when he saw the name Michael Tritter on the top of the file.


	4. Chapter 4: What Matters

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

______________________________________________________

**Chapter 4**

**What Matters**

Now that House had seen, and reacted to, the patient's name, Devi turned her attention to the other mystery. Why was Michael Tritter, whoever he was, so sure that House was going to "get even" with him, treat him unfairly? From everything she'd learned about House over the past year, Devi was positive that if House could find the answer, who Tritter might be and whatever relationship he might have had with House in the past wouldn't figure into the equation. The answer was all that mattered.

But if that was the case, why were Chase and Foreman so worried?

* * * *

In his hospital room, Michael Tritter had an unusual moment of peace. Every few minutes, the room was invaded… by nurses taking his blood pressure and temperature, by nurse's aides lifting the mattress and tucking in the sheets, by fellow police officers coming to visit, by that naïve doctor. And every time someone walked in, he was sure it was going to be Gregory House, come to gloat.

The man was hazardous to patients, and now _he_ was one of those patients. How could House, soaked to the eyeballs with drugs, arrogance and hubris, possibly come up with a solution to whatever it was that was making him so sick? There was no way he could trust that man he'd so desperately pursued, the man he'd been so eager to see behind bars.

And yet, House _had_ been behind bars, albeit for a crime he hadn't committed.

When the news broke, Tritter had been delighted—elated even—watching the story unfold, so sure he had been proven right. If they'd just listened to him all those years ago, if that judge hadn't been swayed by Lisa Cuddy's obvious lie on the witness stand, none of this would have happened. That peril to society would have been put away, lost his license and Allison Cameron would still be alive. Cameron's naïvité in the face of House's destructive drug use—so similar to the naïveté of this Dr. Raja-whatever—had been pathetic. And it had cost her life. They all should have listened to him.

So he'd watched and he rejoiced.

A few years behind bars would teach that bastard a lesson. After a year or so in the penitentiary, he wouldn't be so smug. Some other prisoner or guard would smack that smugness off his face, tear that quick tongue from his throat, do what Tritter himself had been unable to do. And he would deserve it. Once an addict, always an addict. A danger to society.

Unfortunately, Tritter thought, that also made House dangerous to him now. His mind drifted. He tried reading the newspaper the nurse's aide had dropped at the foot of his bed. But all he could see was House's self-satisfied grin as Tritter's case had been dismissed.

Fuck. He had to figure a way out of this. There was no way House was going to give him a fair break—he had too much to gain by tormenting him, making him believe he had some kind of serious illness. Payback. He had to get out of here. But where else could he go? Everywhere he went, they told him House was the best, his only hope. They had to be wrong. He couldn't be dependent on that son-of-a-bitch. Shit. What a mess.

* * * *

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Wilson, his voice rising slightly. "Why didn't you tell me that Tritter was your new patient?"

House looked up serenely over the brim of his reading glasses. When he saw the agitation on Wilson's face, he seemed puzzled.

"Didn't think it mattered," he said, and returned to his journal.

"_Didn't think it mattered?!_ The guy who almost destroyed your career is here, in this hospital, as your patient, and you didn't think it mattered?"

With a sigh, House put the journal down. He'd just had the same conversation with Foreman. The topic was growing old.

"No, Wilson, I didn't think it mattered. It's old news—really old news—and I frankly don't care. Whatever he did and whoever he is holds no interest for me."

Wilson dropped into the chair across from House's desk, scrutinizing his friend's fractured face for signs of deception.

"Can you honestly sit there and tell me that having Michael Tritter as your patient holds no interest for you?"

House looked him squarely in the eye.

"Yes, Wilson, That's exactly what I can tell you. Maybe for you, what happened might be fresh in your memory, but a lot has happened to me in the meantime—in case you haven't noticed…"

Wilson winced, suddenly embarrassed. He broke eye contact with House.

"Tritter is insignificant in the grand scheme of my life. It all happened to some other person in some other life. I simply don't care about it. He's my patient, and he's brought me a case, which will keep my mind off of…"

Suddenly, House stopped talking and looked away, his eyes unfocusing. Wilson knew that look, the one that meant House was slipping dangerously close to memories that were best forgotten. He was on the verge of a flashback. Wilson touched his friend's hand, trying to snap him back to the present. For once, it worked.

"…_uhhhh_… off of… things that hold a great deal more significance to me now."

House's eyes focused again as he pulled himself together.

Wilson sighed.

"It's a matter of degrees, Wilson. At one time, Tritter might have mattered. Now he doesn't. He's a gnat. No. Actually, he's just a puzzle to be solved. It's that simple."

For the next five minutes, Wilson attempted to resuscitate the conversation, but all he succeeded in doing was making House increasingly agitated and angry.

* * * *

By the time House got home, he was in a foul mood, proceeding to inflict his annoyance on Linda McAllister, who dished it right back to him, and on Rainie, who stared him down and told him to behave himself.

He was exhausted and he had a headache, brought on by the fact that no one would leave him alone about Tritter. By the end of the day—meaning by three o'clock, when Wilson dragged him home—both Chase and Cuddy had cross-examined his motives in treating Tritter. The only one who'd had the good sense to leave the subject alone was Devi, although he could see the questions flitting across her face.

Stretched out on the sofa, he grabbed the remote and began looking for something—anything –to distract his attention. Animal Planet—no. TV Land—no. Reruns of _Law & Order_—God, no! For a few minutes, he spun through the channels one after another, going through the gamut of possibilities twice, three times, then over and over, faster and faster, hoping for something to hold his interest. Nothing. With a grunt, he threw the remote to the floor.

Finally, he slid back into the wheelchair and rolled himself to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Rainie could hear the television in his room, volume high, spinning through the same channels House had already scanned in the living room.

"What the hell was _that_ all about?" she asked Linda, who had watched from across the room.

"No idea," said Linda, who hadn't seen House display this kind of agitation in the couple of years she'd been taking care of him. "Ask Wilson."

After a few minutes of thinking it through, Rainie wheeled herself to the front door, pulling it open and sweeping across the landing to the other half of the duplex, where she reached up and rang the bell.

Following the sound of running feet, the door opened.

"R-Rainie? What is it?"

Looking down at her from the front door, Wilson, as always, looked concerned. The man had an expression of perpetual anxiety painted on his features.

"Let me in and I'll tell you. I'm freezing out here," she said, beginning to shiver.

"Oh, uh, of course," stuttered Wilson, pulling the door wide enough for her chair to roll through.

Surprisingly, this was the first time Rainie had been in Wilson's apartment—she seldom left House's side of the duplex, sticking to the familiar surroundings of the place she now shared with House.

Looking around, she noticed both the similarities and the differences. Of course, the layout was reversed, and Wilson's place had not undergone the expensive renovations she and House had spent months implementing next door. But it was a homey and comfortable place, with some of the identical furniture in the living room—Wilson had chosen the furnishings for both places, back when House had originally been released from the hospital and was in no condition to make decisions about chairs and coffee tables.

"Come… come in," said Wilson, still startled at seeing her. She wheeled herself into the living room, and awkwardly pulled herself out of the wheelchair and settled herself on the sofa. Where their apartment had rare artwork, Wilson's place had a few classic Hitchcock and Orson Welles movie posters simply framed.

"Thanks," she said, panting slightly from the exertion.

Wilson settled himself onto the other end of the sofa, scrutinizing Rainie's face for clues. Why had she ventured out of her comfort zone and into his?

"What's going on?"

Rainie thought a moment before answering, toying with the idea of pretending this was just a social call. But she just didn't have enough energy for that kind of game.

"I want to know what insect crawled up House's butt," she said bluntly. "He's been an unmitigated pain in the ass since you brought him home."

Wilson, on the other hand, had no problem feigning ignorance.

"He has?" he ventured.

Rainie wasn't having any part of it.

"Don't bullshit me, James. Something's bugging him."

"Okay, okay." Wilson leaned back as he raised his palms in a show of compliance. If House's behavior was bothering her enough to get her to leave her comfort zone and venture into his, Wilson doubted she would back down until she got the answer.

"So…?"

"He's got a new patient, a guy named Michael Tritter."

After a mere count of four, light dawned.

"Tritter… the cop?"

Wilson's jaw dropped. Not virtually dropped—actually dropped. He continued to be surprised by Rainie's quick mind. Despite everything she'd been through—torture, rape, false imprisonment, physical and emotional devastation—she still spun mental rings around him, her thinking process so much faster than his own.

"Yes… h-how do you know about him?"

She snorted.

"Come on, James. Did you forgot all those months I spent researching Greg before… _before_… _before…_

She paused, and he saw her slip away, off to the same place House had drifted toward earlier in the day.

"Rainie?" He reached out to touch her arm. No reaction. Her eyes were unfocused and she began to tremble. "Rainie… come back."

With a start, she shook her head and gasped.

"You okay?"

"Oh, God!" she whispered.

Wilson held out his arms, and she fell trembling into them. He felt a few warm tears soak through the light fabric of his blue pinstriped shirt.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmured, soothing, in the same voice he had used as House had begun to recover from the ordeal that had left him a shadow.

"Dammit. Dammit all to hell!"

He felt the words more than heard them, muffled through his shirt and arm.

"I know, Rainie. I know. But it gets better. I promise. It gets better."

Usually, House was the one to hold and comfort her. A year ago, Wilson would have bet large sums that House was incapable of reaching beyond his own anguish to try to reassure someone else. But something had happened to his battered friend in the months since Rainie Adler had been discovered, like House, traumatized beyond belief in a dark prison cell.

Somehow, House had used his own horrific experience to help this tiny woman in her attempt to reclaim her life. He'd gotten past his guilt that if it hadn't been for him she wouldn't have gone through a similar experience to his own, losing her husband and child in the process. He'd supported her, and encouraged her to return to her career as a _New York Times_ journalist, going so far as to blackmail _The Times_ into rehiring her, not as the investigative reporter she'd once been, but as an editor and feature writer. At least it was a start.

"Hey," said Wilson softly, gently lifting Rainie's head from its resting place on his arm. "I've got better Kleenex than this."

He felt a hint of a laugh, then a slow intake of breath as Rainie tugged herself back into the present. She flicked the tears off her face, sniffed, and sat up, determination obvious on her face.

"Okay, I'm fine now. Let's get back to Tritter."

Oh, yes. Tritter. Wilson wasn't sure where to start. "How much do you know?"

She told him. To his surprise, she knew more than he did about the background of the vindictive cop who had persecuted House, almost ending his medical career in a prison sentence and his life in a drug overdose. To Wilson's relief, she didn't seem to be aware of his own culpability in what had happened—how he had failed to provide his friend with the pain relief he desperately needed, which set off the chain of events, or how he had eventually offered his friend up as a sacrifice to end the miserable experience.

But she certainly knew who Tritter was, and how his obsession had affected House's life.

"So now he's House's patient?" she asked. "And Greg is upset by it?"

"Actually, no," said Wilson, his confusion apparent not only in his tone of voice but also by the expression on his face. "That's the weird part. He insists that it doesn't bother him to have Tritter as a patient, that he feels no sense of… I don't know… vindictiveness or revenge. In the old days, I wouldn't have believed him. But now…"

He drifted off.

"Then why is Greg so irritated?" she asked. "Why did he come home loaded for bear?"

Wilson shrugged. "I have no idea. Maybe you'd better ask him."

Great. Linda said to ask Wilson. Now Wilson says to ask Greg. Next thing you know, it would come back full circle, and Greg would tell her to ask herself.

Once she'd gotten back to the safety of her side of the duplex, Rainie wheeled herself to House's bedroom door, and then, steeling herself, knocked softly and entered. The volume on the television was lower than when she'd left, and House had finally found something to watch, a _Charmed_ marathon.

"Hey," she said, tentatively.

He looked over and motioned her in. Apparently, he'd gotten past the foul temper that had set her on this quest. He hit the mute button.

"Doing better?" she asked.

Rainie never let him get away with self-deception; it was easier just to tell the truth.

"Mm-hm," he mumbled, his eyes focused on the television screen.

"James says this is about Michael Tritter," she said, watching his shoulders tense up.

"No, it's _not_ about Tritter," he huffed, and she was afraid she'd made a mistake—afraid she'd just pushed him back into an irritable frame of mind. "It's about the fact that no one will leave me alone about Tritter." His gaze caught hers in a quick warning before darting back to the television.

"Fair enough," said Rainie, and she turned to leave him alone and surprised with the remote and three television witches.

* * * *

For House, the next day wasn't much better. Even if Rainie had clearly taken the hint, no one else seemed to.

On the drive into work, Wilson tried again to get House to "open up" about having Tritter as a patient. The result, by the time they arrived at the hospital, was a sullen and angry House.

Shortly after he got in, Cuddy stopped by for no apparent reason—yeah, he believed that—just to "see how you're doing today"—followed by Chase and Foreman watching him expectantly and processing everything he said, as if they anticipated some sort of reaction from him. Devi continued to eye him warily; it was apparent that she was dying to ask him about Tritter, but at least she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut. He may not have been the one who originally hired her—that had been taken care of by his predecessor, Evans—but she was a good choice.

In the meantime, symptoms continued to pile up. Now the board included a heart murmur and what seemed to be difficulty in walking. The results of yesterday's tests were in… all except the HIV test, which took longer to process. All were negative.

Around noon, House had had enough. As Chase and Foreman prattled on behind him—_something something blah blah blah something something blah _about dealing with his feelings—he abruptly grabbed the wheels of his chair and scooted rapidly out of the office, leaving them open-mouthed behind him; since he had returned to work, he seldom left the safety of the office.

With no destination in mind, he meandered aimlessly around the hospital. Under normal circumstances, Cuddy couldn't have paid him enough to leave his office—wherever he went, he saw the stares and heard the rumblings as patients and staff reacted to his presence. Whether they were responding to the obvious effects of his injuries or because they recognized him from the ubiquitous news stories didn't really matter. He hated being out, being seen. And yet, here he was. Even this was better than the constant grilling about Tritter. He briefly toyed with the idea of locking himself in the morgue, just to have a place where no one bothered him.

Keeping his head down, he tried to ignore all the intrusions. When the gawking got too invasive, he snapped and snarled, hearing a murmured "Same old House" rushing by in his wake.

* * * *

Standing at the nurse's station, Nurse Brenda Previn saw something out of the corner of her eye. The something moved slowly and emitted a mild squeak. It took her a moment to figure out what it was. Not until an eerie silence descended did she realize who had ventured from the security of the Diagnostics Department to return to the Clinic for the first time in years.

"Oh, my God," she heard behind her. "It's House."

"Look at him."

"Holy hell. He looks awful."

Previn watched as House attempted to ignore the mutters, until one of the younger nurses who didn't know better approached him awkwardly. "Dr. House, it's an honor to meet you," she fawned.

Previn saw him flush uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. She winced. _He deserves his privacy_, she thought. _Why don't they just leave him alone?_

The naïve nurse blocked his path, stretching out her hand, obviously expecting some sort of reaction from the great man—a handshake, perhaps, or at least an acknowledgment.

Pursing his lips, House huffed in annoyance. "And I suppose your gushing is supposed to make it all better, right? Get out of my way."

Startled, the nurse froze.

"I _said_, get out of my way." Without waiting for her to respond, House ran over her foot. Yelping, the young nurse gawped as he rolled off toward the elevators.

"Same old House," said Previn, allowing herself an affectionate smile. "Same old House."

As the elevator swallowed up the doctor and his wheelchair, she turned back toward the desk, still smiling.

* * * *

After nearly an hour of roaming, House began to grow weary. When he found himself outside Tritter's room, he started to sweep past, but his curiosity got the better of him. As he rolled by the room's windows, he peeked through the glass to catch a glimpse of his old nemesis… asleep.

It had been nearly eight years since Michael Tritter had first shown up in the clinic. In his wake came chaos and destruction. House vaguely recalled a beefy man exuding a quiet menace that House, if he'd had any sense, would have recognized meant business. That was about all he could dredge up, and even those memories were shrouded in fog.

Skidding to a complete stop, he stared into the room.

How did he really feel about the man? Was everyone else right? Was he actually upset that Tritter had come back into his life? Was he so out of touch with his feelings that he couldn't even identify his emotions? Or did he now understand his own inner workings much better than he once had? Was he right—had Tritter become too insignificant to concern himself with… if everyone else would just drop the fucking subject? What exactly were his motives?

He closed his eyes and searched his soul. Finally, he opened his eyes again, scrutinizing the man in the bed. Tritter was thinner now—much thinner. Even asleep, he looked uncomfortable in his restless slumber. In this condition, the man appeared to be no threat.

After a moment, House grabbed the big wheels of the chair, turning and pushing himself rapidly down the hall toward Wilson's office.

_I knew Tritter would upset him_, thought Wilson when his office door suddenly flew open and an angry House rolled through. _This was a bad idea. What was Cuddy thinking, allowing House to have Tritter as a patient?_

"Fuck!" House muttered irritably.

"House?" Wilson's inflection echoed the annoying concern that on occasion, including this one, drove House crazy.

"The very same."

"What's going on? Tritter?"

"No, not Tritter," enunciated House, glaring. "You."

Wilson looked confused.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You, Cuddy, Foreman… and everyone else. Quit trying to second-guess me. I don't need your concern. I'm a big boy now, and I can handle this without half a dozen colleagues telling me what I should feel."

He wheeled himself to the far side of Wilson's office and stared out the window, snorting in exasperation.

Quietly, Wilson got up and moved into position behind the chair, leaning over to place his fingers gently on House's neck as he checked House's pulse. Suddenly, he felt a hand grasp his wrist and yank it away.

"Stop that!" growled House. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are, House," hissed Wilson in return. "You're the picture of tranquility."

"I _would_ be, if everyone would just shut the fuck up and let me do my job," House said through gritted teeth. He looked up, his eyes piercing Wilson's. Neither man moved for a moment, each trying to stare the other down.

Although House's pulse was near normal, Wilson felt his own heartbeat begin to pound. It had been years since the two of them had allowed themselves this kind of open conflict. If House was agitated enough to allow himself to get angry, Wilson recognized this as a crucial moment, one he needed to handle properly. Tritter's presence might actually have triggered a major step forward in House's recovery.

For once, Wilson held his tongue, despite his omnipresent need to offer advice. For a couple of years now, he had been providing House with desperately needed emotional support, so counseling him was almost impossible to resist. Exhaling slowly, he backed off, palms up and head bowed.

With an effort, he said, "You're right. It's not my business."

"Damn right it isn't," huffed House, turning the chair around.

As Wilson started to perch on the corner of his desk, he stopped himself, realizing he would be looking down on his friend, which House no doubt would interpret as condescension. He slid over onto the couch, where he could sit face-to-face with House.

For another few minutes, they sat quietly, looking down and saying nothing.

Finally, Wilson ventured forth.

"I guess… I guess I've gotten so used to taking care of you that I take you for granted. Underestimate you."

House gave a short nod.

"So… what is it you want from me… from us?"

House thought for a moment.

"I already told you."

Puzzled, Wilson tried to reconstruct the past few minutes. Ah.

"Shut the fuck up and let you do your job?"

"Bingo."

This time, it was Wilson who nodded.

"I can do that."

"Can you? Can you really?"

Wilson was momentarily dumbstruck. It had been a very, _very_ long time since House had felt safe enough to nail Wilson on his behavior.

"Uh… I… _ummm_."

House's shoulders relaxed, and he smiled as he looked at his friend with genuine fondness.

"Well, give it a try, anyway."

Wilson grinned back.

"I'll do my best. No guarantees. Bad habits are hard to shake."

"Granted. But the man is my patient. No matter what your feelings might be, he's here because no one else can treat him. The guy is an arrogant pain in the ass who made both our lives a living hell in another universe, but frankly, that's unimportant. Now he's a patient. And I intend to treat him like one. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good."

With that, House grabbed the doorknob to Wilson's office, swinging it open as he pushed himself through the opening with a _whoosh_, letting the door slam in his wake.

Back in his own office, his staff awaited, eyeing House apprehensively as he rolled to the head of the conference room table. For a long, awkward minute, they watched him, waiting for… what?

Finally, he spoke.

"Look, let's get this out in the open," he said firmly. "Tritter is our patient, like any other, and we _will_ treat him exactly as we would anyone else. If you have problems with that, deal with it. If you think I should feel differently about this situation, do me a favor and keep those thoughts to yourself. If Tritter has problems with it or with me, then it's his problem, not ours. Am I clear?"

He looked from face to face. Devi smiled. As long as patient care came first, she was uninterested in the back-story. Foreman, normally confrontive—which he often confused with being assertive—unwillingly nodded his agreement. Only Chase seemed uncertain.

"I just don't understand how you can…" he started, quickly interrupted by House, who by now was determined to end this once and for all.

"However you plan to end that sentence," he said calmly, "know that my response is going to be 'I can.'"

Chase looked startled.

"I-I'm not sure what you mean," he stuttered out.

"Sure you do," said House, cutting through to the heart of things. "I _can_ treat him objectively, I _can_ put it behind me, I _can_ handle this. Who he is—or was—and what he did—as well as how I behaved—none of it matters. I simply don't care. What matters is that the man is our patient. His condition is deteriorating, and we need to find out why. Whatever feelings you might still carry with you, set them aside. No more discussion. Got it?"

Chase lowered his eyes, and slowly agreed.

"Good. Now get back to work. Find out what's killing our patient."

* * * *

With a gasp, Tritter awoke from his nap, feeling unsettled. He tried to hold onto it, but his dream evaporated before he could grasp it. Somehow, he knew it was about House.

When the story broke that the world-famous, drug-addicted doctor not only hadn't brutally murdered his beautiful, young employee but had actually sacrificed himself to try to save her life and the lives of six others, it made headlines around the world.

As is often the case when something earth-shattering intrudes into real life, Tritter remembered exactly where he was when he heard the news.

"Hey, Tritter, get this!" Sanchez had called out from two desks away. "Wasn't this that guy you were so eager to put away? The doctor? That House guy?"

Tritter looked up to see Sanchez pointing at the local news feed running on a dusty television set hanging precariously from the ceiling. Suddenly queasy, Tritter felt the blood drain out of his face. He barely remembered stumbling across the room, or standing dizzily in front of the screen watching, unbelieving, as the story unfolded.

The bastard was free.

After a few stunned weeks, during which his fellow officers mercilessly taunted him about having so completely misjudged the doctor, he carefully stuffed the reality of House's bravery back into its proper compartment, convincing himself despite the evidence that someday the _real _story would come out and House would be back in prison where he so obviously belonged.


	5. Chapter 5: Symptoms

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Chapter 5:**** Symptoms**

The next day, Tuesday, was one of House's days off, so Devi, Foreman and Chase were left to their own devices. They ran more tests. Nope, it wasn't abetalipoproteinemia. Back to the whiteboard.

In the duplex, House unwillingly prepared himself for the bi-weekly group therapy session with psychiatrist Jacey Liu. A specialist in post-traumatic stress disorder, Liu had been working with House and Rainie Adler individually and together for several months now, ever since Rainie had become House's patient.

Although it had gotten easier with time, House still resisted therapy, inventing endlessly creative ways to put off the beginning of the sessions. Despite his grumbling and protestations, House found that under Liu's tutelage, exploring his excruciating past was indeed helping him come to terms with the havoc Robert Thompson's vendetta had wreaked on his body, his mind and his life. That didn't make it any easier to start each session, though, knowing wracking tears and devastating flashbacks might accompany the voyages into his mind.

Today, he'd developed a last-minute craving for red velvet cake, insisting that he couldn't start the session until Linda went out and searched the local groceries until she found some.

Suddenly, from the entrance to the kitchen, a voice interrupted House's whining. "Come on, Greg," said Linda wickedly, "face it. Red velvet cake isn't what it's cracked up to be. You know where the red in red velvet cake comes from, don't you?"

She detected a slight twinkle in House's eye as the kitchen light reflected off his face, lighting up the scars in a disconcerting way. "Mmmmm. Bugs," he said. "Crushed bugs. My favorite. Yummy."

She and House exchanged an amused glance, and then Linda smiled to herself. _Pretty far_, she thought, maternally. _He's come pretty far if he can joke about the days when eating a bug was the only nourishment he got during a day_. "Yes," she said, a little more softly. "Bugs."

As for the stalling tactic, Jacey Liu was having no part of it. "A-hem," she said, clearing her throat and drawing House's attention back to the living room. "No such luck, Greg. Your craving for cake made out of red bugs can wait. Linda can go out while we're having our session, and if she's lucky enough to find red velvet cake for you, I'll let you have some as a treat for behaving yourself during the session. Bugs or no bugs. Now, settle yourself."

With a drama-queen sigh, House sat down opposite Rainie on the other end of the long, plush couch.

Jacey focused her attention on Rainie.

"Since Greg is so obviously not ready to begin, why don't we start with you? Tell me what's going on this week."

Rainie sat quietly for a moment, and then began.

"Actually, I have a little mystery to solve, and it involves Greg."

_Oh, crap, _he thought. _Here we go_. House squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, grimacing. _Goddammit_._ Even Rainie can't leave the Tritter business alone_. But, as often happened, Rainie Adler surprised him. Not by avoiding the topic of Tritter, but by the way she approached it.

"Back at the beginning," she began, "before I knew about Robert Thompson, I did a lot of research into Greg's history. About eight years ago, Greg was arrested and charged with drug dealing. Ultimately, the case was dismissed. The arresting officer was a policeman named Michael Tritter."

Jacey nodded her head encouragingly, apparently the only one in House's small universe who hadn't heard the news about House's new patient. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw House turn away _Curious_, she thought.

"Go on." While seemingly attentive to what Rainie was saying, Jacey surreptitiously kept an eye on House, wondering where this was going.

"From talking to other people at PPTH, I found out that Tritter had been a patient of Greg's in the clinic one day. There was some sort of confrontation, which ultimately led Tritter to follow him, arrest him for speeding… and then very quickly it escalated into an ugly situation."

"And the mystery?" asked Jacey.

Rainie took a breath as she pondered how to word the next phrase.

"I was never able to find out how it all started," she ventured cautiously. "I really want to know what happened in that exam room—what angered Greg so much that he nearly lost his medical license and his freedom over it."

House listened as Rainie spun her tale, semi-relieved that his current motives weren't being questioned. He pretended to be bored, when in actuality, he was anything but. No, he was… well, what was he? Searching around inside himself, he realized that he was anxious. _How did it start, back in that other life, to that other person?_ he thought, starting to feel ill at ease, as his mind approached the issue almost clinically.

Jacey turned to House.

"Greg…?"

Unwillingly, he looked up.

"Can you solve this mystery for Rainie?"

House wavered. He really wanted the subject of Tritter to go away, but so far Rainie's request seemed benign, even if it was giving him that queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. So far, Jacey seemed unconcerned about _why_ this long-past confrontation had so intrigued Rainie. Blunt attack seemed the best strategy. Then maybe they'd both drop it, and he wouldn't have to go back there and revisit the moment when everything seemed to go so very wrong. "If you must know," he said, "he pissed me off and I stuck a thermometer up his butt, and then I checked out of the clinic and went home."

Even Jacey seemed a little startled, but she knew that House had a long history of angering patients, so she kept her reaction under control.

Rainie, on the other hand, wasn't satisfied. She turned toward House.

"How did he piss you off?"

Despite himself, House found that he was becoming engaged in the session. Without realizing he was doing it, he turned his body toward the other two. He couldn't help wondering where her journalist's mind was going with this.

"Why does it matter to you? He pissed me off. Isn't that enough?"

Rainie shook her head. "No, it's not. Why was he in the clinic?"

"I have no idea."

"Stop taking me literally," said Rainie with a mock glare on her face. Articulating very clearly and speaking very precisely, she added, "Now… what medical problem did he have that brought him to the clinic?"

House's eyes narrowed slightly as he smiled to himself, wondering if he could shock Jacey Liu into changing the subject.

"Crotch rot."

"Crotch rot?" Jacey never blinked. Damn. He should have known she was shockproof.

"Yeah, crotch rot. A rash, an irritation, around his penis."

"And what did you suggest?"

She really wasn't going to let this go.

"I told him to stop diddling himself for a while and it would go away. I also prescribed a medicated lotion."

"Embarrassing, but reasonable. Why wasn't that the end of it?"

"He questioned my judgment and insisted that I do some tests—tests that were completely unwarranted under the circumstances."

"And you said…?" prompted Rainie.

"I told him he was an idiot."

Greg looked away. _Uh-oh. He'd hit on it—the whatever-it-was that was making him want to get out of this conversation._ Slowing his breathing, trying to calm himself and clear his head, he pictured the scene.

Clinic duty. Now a thing of the past, it had been the armpit of his existence for years, precipitating the endless fights with Cuddy, the manipulations of his team to get them to take over his shifts and mostly, the stultifying boredom of dealing with the mundane medical crises and moronic patients.

_He grabbed the folder with a huff and shoved the exam room door open, itching for a reason to be annoyed._

"_I've been waiting for an hour," said the man who turned out to be Det. Michael Tritter, also itching for a fight._

What happened next? He tried to remember. It was pretty much the way he described it, wasn't it? He hadn't pulled any punches in what he'd just told them… at least he didn't think so. Tritter came in with an embarrassing, self-created, minor—very minor—complaint, and House had mocked him for it. In short, a typical day in the clinic. The only difference being that this particular clinic moron was an immovable force unwilling to be bullied by a misanthropic doctor with too much time on his hands and too little regard for the concerns of his patients.

The way House had perceived it then was that clinic patients were there only to make his life miserable. Yeah, miserable. As if he'd had any idea back then what misery really meant. What he wouldn't trade for an hour of that miserable old life, when his only problems were his leg, his loneliness and his boredom.

Rainie watched closely as House's cheeks flushed with… _what_…? His shoulders tensed, those sharply intelligent eyes betraying not only the fact that he was remembering the Tritter incident, but how he felt about it now. Suddenly, he grimaced, his hands twitching and then clenching around a handful of sofa cushion.

"Greg?"

At first, he didn't hear her. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed a couple of times, blinking back what might possibly be the beginning of tears.

"Greg?" she repeated, slowly extending her hand toward him. He shook his head, shifting away from her slightly.

House pursed his lips, refusing to look at either Rainie or Jacey Liu. "That was all there was to it. He insisted, I got pissed, and then I put the thermometer up his ass."

"And…?"

He shrugged. "There is no _and_. That's it. He was a jerk." A quick, sharp inhale. Truth. "_And…_ _I_ was a jerk. End of story."

Rainie thought about it for a minute.

"That's it? You got pissed because he was wasting your time, so you put a thermometer up his butt?"

"Yup," he said, popping the _p_ in an attempt to bring this miserable conversation to a close. There it was again—_miserable_—that miserable word, the one that miserably defined his whole miserable life. For a few seconds, House thought he might get away with it. But Rainie was too sharp—far sharper than either Cuddy or Wilson had been at the time.

"I don't think so," said Rainie finally, shaking her head. "No," she said again. "You wouldn't do that."

House looked startled, uncomfortable… and perhaps a bit annoyed.

"You weren't there," he challenged. "How would you know what I would or wouldn't do?"

She challenged back. "It just doesn't sound like you."

He glared at her. "I did it, so it _was_ something I would do. End of story."

"You said that already."

"What?" He became uncomfortably aware of how keenly Rainie was scrutinizing him. "I said _what_ already?"

"'End of story.' You said it twice."

Ah. Here was his out. He could get annoyed with her for picking up on his repetition… and maybe get her to change the subject.

"Yeah, so? Don't you ever repeat yourself?" He glared at her.

After a long pause, Rainie shook her head, never losing eye contact with him. "Nice try, Greg, but I'm not playing."

Play dumb. "Playing?" he asked, trying to sound confused and innocent.

"Oh, stop," she said, almost, but not quite, smiling. "You think if you pick this little semantic argument with me that I'll forget where we were going." She eyed him, a severe look on her face but her mouth twitching in amusement. "That might work with those idiot clinic patients, but it won't work with me." She searched his face; he looked away involuntarily. "_Hmmm_… Maybe I'm getting close to something… or you wouldn't be trying so hard to get me off track."

Jacey leaned back, resting her elbows on the arms of the overstuffed chair, and pressing the tips of her fingers together. Watching the two of them battle it out as they struggled to reclaim their lives and their sanity was like watching supreme athletes at work—this was the World Series or Wimbledon of her profession.

House tried to wait Rainie out, staring unblinking at his red tennis shoes until his vision swam and the color bled into the bland rug underneath. Just as stubborn as House, Rainie simply waited him out until finally, his shoulders sagged and she knew she'd won.

When he spoke, it was so quiet, she couldn't understand him until he repeated what he'd said.

"I deserved it," he mumbled under his breath. Then, slightly louder: "It was my fault, and I deserved it." _Just like I deserved what Thompson did to me. It was my fault, and I deserved it. "You know that when we kill Dr. Cameron that it will be your fault, don't you, Greg_?" _"Yes," he'd replied, and he had believed it. _He still believed it.

Sensing that her patient was no longer talking just about Tritter, Jacey leaned forward, her hands reaching toward House on the far side of the sofa from Rainie.

"What was your fault, Greg? What did you deserve?"

He shook his head, as if he could shake off the unwanted thoughts and the attendant feelings that came with them.

"I deserved it," he repeated, for the first time remembering the moment in that exam room when things went from a typical day with a typical clinic patient to something far worse. "I was a jerk, and I deserved it."

Rainie let out a slow breath. "I know you—and I know enough about how you behaved back then. This isn't in character. Yes, you probably behaved like a jerk, but that doesn't explain what came next. I don't believe you could have done anything to deserve that. That's why I know something else happened in that room. You wouldn't have retaliated against this guy unless he did something to you—something that made you angry enough to strike back at him. Pushing you to order unnecessary tests wouldn't have done it."

There was no way he was going to tell the next part. House began to fidget, quite sure he didn't like where this was going.

"What was it, Greg? What did he do to you? What did you deserve?"

She caught his unsettled glance and refused to let it go.

A long, uneasy silence settled over the room.

Finally…

"Come _on_, Greg. What did he do? What's the missing piece here?"

After another long, tense silence, House finally spoke, almost unwillingly, his soft voice barely audible. His eyelids flickered just slightly—what Jacey and Rainie had both learned was a "tell" that House was struggling to contain a strong emotional reaction—and then he looked away.

"He tripped me."

"What?" asked Jacey, who had been unable to hear his answer.

"I _said_," repeated House, raising his voice just slightly, annoyed that he not only had to say it in the first place, but now had to repeat it, "he tripped me. As I was leaving the room, he knocked my cane out from under me, and I fell against the door."

This time, Jacey Liu _was_ shocked. Rainie sat quietly, processing what he'd said.

"So the man's a bully," she whispered.

"Well, duh," said House, which brought a smile to Jacey Liu's face.

Rainie remained focused on House, clearly not finished. "_That's_ what made you assault him with the thermometer, and _that's_ why you insisted on fighting him, even if it was going to cost your license and your freedom. Bullies don't like it when someone stands up to them. You weren't going to let a bully get away with it."

For just a second, their eyes met. Then House looked down again, and began fidgeting with the corner of the tan throw pillow next to him on the sofa.

"Am I right?" asked Rainie, making it clear she expected an answer.

Finally, House bobbed his head. The part he wasn't going to say aloud was that perhaps Tritter had been standing up to a bully, too.

"So, actually, you were standing up for what you thought was right," said Rainie. "It's wrong to attack a cripple—what kind of person would do that? Someone had to stand up to him. And then he used his power as a police officer to get even with you. Still a bully. But a bully with the law behind him."

Somehow sensing she was done, House looked into her eyes once more, softly nodded in agreement, and his eyelids flickered once more. He clearly intended to say as little more on the subject as possible.

"Thanks," she said decisively, as if the subject was now closed. "Now it's clear to me." She picked up a travel mug with both shaky hands, took a sip of water, and turned away from him.

Whew. But just when he thought the topic had played itself out, Jacey spoke up again. _Damn._

"How did that make you feel, Greg?"

No, no, no. He was _not_ going to go there. Didn't matter. Wasn't important.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Jacey tried again.

"Greg?"

"Well, if you must know, it tickled my insides and made me think of butterflies and sunshine."

"_Greg_…" This time, Jacey used that tone of voice mothers use when it's really truly time to put down the toys and come to dinner.

He sighed heavily.

"Okay. Since you asked so nicely, it made me angry."

She shook her head. Not good enough.

"Of course it did. We know that part. _Why_ did it make you angry? And what other feelings did you have?"

Nothing.

She drummed her fingers on the edge of the wingback armchair.

House sighed heavily, beginning to get annoyed. "Oh, come on. You're not really going to make me do this, are you? What is this—Embarrass House Day? It's not bad enough I had to answer Rainie's question, now I've got to try to remember what I felt for a few seconds eight years ago? Give me a break."

He folded his arms, once again turning his body away. Forty-five minutes after the session began and he was back in the position he'd been in when the session started.

Both she and Rainie sat quietly, waiting him out.

After nearly a minute, he glanced back over his shoulder to see if they were still paying attention. When they caught him looking, he knew Jacey had outlasted his stubbornness. He shifted his body incrementally in their direction before speaking.

"It wasn't fair," he mumbled at last. "I was just trying to do my job, and he picked on me. Because of the damned leg." Again, he was still so quiet that Rainie had to strain to understand him.

"And you were sensitive about your leg injury anyway. So it wasn't fair for him to attack you at your weakest point, was it?" Jacey kept her voice low, learning that House was more likely to respond if he didn't feel challenged.

Yet another barely perceptible nod issued forth.

"How else did you feel? How did you feel just before you got angry enough to strike back?"

"I was embarrassed." The words tumbled out before he had a chance to stop them. _Damn._

"Greg… look at me a moment, would you?"

Unwillingly, House glanced back up at Jacey Liu.

"When you were a little boy, moving from school to school, did the school bullies pick you out because you were new, or maybe because you were different—did they pick on your weaknesses?"

"Of course," House snapped, protecting himself by pitching back into professional mode. "Human nature."

"And what did you do about it?"

"Not much," he said, remembering the bloody noses and the black eyes, and then the admonishments from his father afterward.

_You're the son of a Marine. You need to live up to the standards of the Marines. Don't get in fights. Take it like a man._

"But you still knew it wasn't right for a bully to get away with attacking someone, especially someone weaker than they were, right?"

House agreed.

"So when Tritter came along and attacked your weakness, you felt you had to try to keep him from getting away with it."

"Yeah. Okay. Fine. But I was a bully, too. So I deserved it."

Jacey Liu looked at him sharply. "Are you telling me that you really believe that Tritter attacking someone with a disability by knocking his cane out from under him was a just punishment for you being rude?"

He huffed out his frustration, his soft voice getting louder as he got more agitated. "Yes. Yes, I believe that. How many times do I have to say it? I deserved it."

"And you think that because you… let's say, behaved badly… that somehow you deserved to be arrested, humiliated and nearly lose your career—just for standing up to this bully?"

Well, presented that way, his sense of… guilt, embarrassment, shame … did seem a little out of whack. He started to nod his head, then changed his mind halfway through, switching to a _no_ headshake. His hands fluttered, and then finally he shrugged his shoulders, flinging his hands into the air and gesturing confusion.

"Let me put it this way, Greg. If you had to do it again, would you do the same thing again?"

Rainie watched House's face closely, his expressive eyes reflecting his thoughts as he worked through his answer; they shifted around the room, looking toward the ceiling, flickering toward her and then Jacey, before settling back on his red sneakers.

"I… I don't know. Maybe. Minus the first part, where I was a total asshole. I'd probably do that differently. Otherwise, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"Maybe it was the right thing to do. But can you see that the way you reacted just now—believing that you deserved to be punished in that situation—completely understandable given everything that's happened since then—might be a little out of proportion… just as Tritter's was toward you? That maybe you didn't deserve everything that happened, no matter how badly you might have behaved?"

Just as House was beginning to feel like a bobble-head doll, Rainie interjected.

"Ah, but wait. There's something else. Let me ask this: Because you were embarrassed, did you ever tell Lisa or James why you were so obstinate about Tritter—why you kept insisting you were in the right, even when it was about to cost your freedom and your livelihood?"

House said nothing, which she interpreted as a no, he hadn't told them.

"You didn't, did you? You were too embarrassed to let them know there might be a _reason_ why you refused to give in to Tritter—even if… just maybe… you overreacted. You'd rather let them think you'd been an ass for no reason, tormenting Tritter because he was stupid, when actually you stood up to a bully. No wonder you felt so strongly about it. No wonder you allowed it to escalate. You kept hoping someone would trust you, didn't you? That maybe they would understand that bullies have to be stopped… that just maybe, for once, someone would give you credit for having a reason for your behavior… even if you never told anyone that reason."

This time, he didn't have to respond. She was right and she knew it.

To his great relief and delight, the rest of the session was spent on other topics. House couldn't fathom why Rainie had been compelled to extract that _miserable_ moment from him. At least she hadn't questioned his objectivity now that Tritter was his patient. And, much to his surprise, neither she nor Jacey had agreed with him when he said he had deserved it.

Maybe there was something here he hadn't considered. Maybe just because he'd been a jackass to patients, he didn't actually deserve to have his cane knocked away, or to be hounded by Tritter. Maybe he'd been right in the first place, right to stand up to the detective. And just maybe he didn't deserve everything that had happened since. Maybe.

As the meeting wound down, nearly an hour later, an odd thing occurred to House. Somehow—_somehow_—he felt a slight weight lifted from him, now that he'd confronted his former behavior and confessed his embarrassment about Tritter and the cane. The really odd thing was that when he told them how he felt, neither Jacey Liu nor Rainie Adler had laughed at him.

Once the session was done, Linda handed him a fork and plate. On the plate was a large piece of red velvet cake.

* * * *

The phone on Evan Schuster's desk rang at 10:33 a.m.

"You've reached the desk of Evan Schuster of _The New York Times_. Please leave your message after the tone."

"Hey, Evan, it's Rainie. I could use your help on something. Call me when you get this."


	6. Chapter 6: The Next Day

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Chapter 6:**** The Next Day**

On Wednesday, Devi slipped through the door of Michael Tritter's room.

"Hi, Mr. Tritter. How are you doing this morning?"

Tritter looked her over skeptically. He was beginning to get used to seeing her. Devi Rajghatta was slight and dark, with large eyes. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was genuinely concerned about how he felt.

"About the same," he replied bluntly.

"We're still running some tests, but we've eliminated several possibilities."

His face hardened.

"And is that bastard House enjoying himself, knowing I'm like _this_?" He gestured around the room.

Devi felt a blanket of sadness overtake her. No matter how she approached him, the man was convinced that House would mistreat him. "No, Mr. Tritter, he's not. All we want to do is find out what's making you sick and fix it."

Tritter set his mouth. "I've been here for three days, and he still hasn't found the answer. He's stalling, letting me get worse so he can pull a medical rabbit out of his hat. I bet he's sitting in his office right now, thrilled that he's got the upper hand over me."

Devi stared at him a moment, trying to get her emotions under control. House said to treat him like any other patient, and at the moment, that wasn't easy. She took a deep breath before speaking again.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she said, finally, scribbling notes on his chart to avoid looking him in the eye. "We really are doing our best to help you." At Chase's suggestion ("C.Y.A.," he'd said. "Cover your ass."), she had begun notating all of Tritter's comments about House.

"He's a drug addict and a thief. How could this hospital possibly keep him on staff?"

That did it. Devi had had enough.

"Mr. Tritter, no matter what you may think, Dr. House is one of the best diagnosticians in the entire world. He has devoted his life to saving lives no one else could save. And he's done it despite… well, despite the worst conceivable circumstances. I don't know how you've come to have your perception of him, but it's not how the medical profession sees him, and it's not how he's perceived by the many people whose lives he's saved."

Tritter gaped. Just like Cameron all those years ago, this female doctor was mesmerized and deluded by that conceited fucker House. How could anyone be unable to see through the man?

* * * * *

"So… what's this all about?"

Evan sat at Rainie's bedside, helping her sort through the stacks of paper he'd brought with him.

"Just a little research," she replied noncommittally.

"That's crap and you know it," said Evan, a hint of a smile gracing his lips. "I've known you too long." Slowly, he reached out and touched Rainie's hand. She shivered a moment, forcing herself to remain still and to avoid pulling away. "I can help better if I know what's up."

With a huff of frustration, Rainie shoved the accumulated papers scattered around her toward the foot of the bed. This was no good. Whatever it was that she was looking for wasn't going to be found in old newspaper articles or the online research that had gotten her journalistic juices flowing.

Between the time her session with Greg had ended and hours later, when she had called Evan, Rainie had been on her computer, digging out old notes—thank goodness, Evan had kept everything—and tapping into legal and journalistic records for additional background information. What she'd found had disturbed her.

It had taken her a couple of hours, but she finally tracked down the quote that was tickling her brain. "We set aside $50,000 a year just for House's legal fees," Lisa Cuddy had said in one of their interviews while Rainie was compiling House's history for the series of articles she was researching… _before_. Once she had been given permission to go through hospital records, Rainie had discovered that those fees were set aside for a good reason; Gregory House had a history of antagonizing patients, often leading them to file complaints. Likewise, she had just discovered, Michael Tritter had a stack of complaints files against him, according to online police records. The difference was that the complaints against House were generally dismissed once he'd found the medical answer he was looking for, once he'd saved a loved one's life.

"_But I was a bully, too. So I deserved it."_ House's words kept coming back to her. It was a worrisome pair of sentences, on more than one level. She realized that the Greg House she'd gotten to know was far removed from the bully he may once have been. His experiences of the past few years had knocked all of that out of him, leaving a sometimes timid, usually deferential and always fearful man in his place. There were glimpses, in his sarcastic use of language, of the man he'd been before, but on the whole, she was having trouble reconciling the man she knew with the one she was aware that he had once been. The fact that he felt he deserved malicious treatment because he'd been obnoxious—or _why _he had been obnoxious—was a matter best left for psychiatrist Jacey Liu.

She explained all of this to Evan, who not unreasonably asked, "So what are you looking for, punkin'? What's really going on in that noggin?"

"Not sure," she replied. "Something's just not adding up here. We've got histories of arrogant, bullying behavior on both sides, so neither of these men is innocent of fault. And yet…" Her eyes drifted away as she chewed on the problem.

"Let me give it a try," Evan said after a moment, applying his own keen mind to the problem. "I think it's the cane thing."

Thoughtfully, Rainie's eyes turned toward his. After a moment, she nodded. "Yeah, it's the cane thing, plus more. Let me talk this through, and maybe I can get to whatever's bothering me."

Evan nodded. The two had been friends and colleagues for so long that he recognized where Rainie was in the process—she needed to sort it all out, preferably aloud, so she could decide if there was something worth pursuing here. "Okay, go," he said.

She thought a moment, patting the quilt beneath her, as if revving up for a race, and staring down at the bed before beginning. "So… It's one thing to be annoyed after being kept waiting, and then to get a doctor who is a pain in the ass when he finally shows up. We've all been through it. But to dismiss that doctor's opinion takes it a step further. Presumably, Tritter went to the clinic because he was concerned enough about his 'crotch rot' to want treatment for it. He gets a medical determination, and then, perhaps because Greg was a jerk, he doesn't trust that opinion. He doesn't _ask_ if additional tests are necessary; he insists on them." She looked up. "Have you ever done anything like that? Is it maybe a male thing, to challenge the doctor's opinion—to behave as if you know more than a trained professional?"

Evan shook his head. "No. Frankly, I wouldn't dream of doing anything like that. I might ask for a second opinion… I might complain about the doctor's behavior after I left the exam room… but I can't imagine challenging the doctor the second I got the opinion. I'd probably be so relieved to find out it wasn't anything serious, I'd probably thank the guy… even if he was a jerk."

Rainie nodded, her mind racing as this piece of the puzzle slipped into place.

"This, of course, pisses Greg off, so he pushes back," said Rainie.

Evan kept his mouth shut, knowing that, for the moment, all Rainie needed was a sounding board.

"Now, here's where the cane comes in. Tritter has done something obnoxious and unusual in asking for additional tests. Greg tells him he's a moron, or something like it. And what does Tritter do? Does he zip up his fly and storm out, demanding to see someone in charge? Does he accept Greg's vociferously offered opinion that no further tests are necessary? Is he so relieved that it's not cancer that he goes home? Does he request a second opinion? Does he even think about it at all?

"No, none of those. Without pausing, he immediately goes for Greg's most vulnerable area and attacks it. He sees that this obnoxious doctor is disabled, and so he knocks the man's cane out from under him, causing him to fall against the door. Then…" She rifled through her old notes. "…He rationalizes his behavior as standing up to a bully. But Greg is not the only bully in that room; they've both displayed bullying behavior from the moment Greg limped through the door. And somehow, the whole thing blows up. It's like the chemical reaction between ammonia and bleach. You put those in the same tub, and you're going to get poison gas."

Evan waited, suspecting from years' worth of experience that she wasn't done yet. Something was still bothering her. Sure enough…

"Ah," she said, after a moment. "Here's the thing. We know they both have a history of bullying behavior, right? They've both got complaints filed against them. We know that, in Greg's case, most of those complaints were dropped. What we _don't_ know is the nature of the complaints against Tritter, or how they turned out. _That's_ what I need to find out."

Evan watched as her intense hazel eyes searched again through the papers spread out before her.

"Punkin'," he said, slowly, not quite sure how to start. "_Ummm…_" She stopped her almost frantic searching to look at him, questioningly. "Let me ask you something: Why do you feel the need to do this? Why does this ancient situation matter so much to you now?"

Sighing, she raised her eyes to Evan's.

"Okay, fine. Here's the deal. Years ago, after the cane incident, this same cop harassed Greg and nearly cost him his medical license. He tried to get him sent to prison for dealing drugs. Now, all of a sudden, Tritter shows up as a patient in Greg's department."

As Evan's eyebrows shot up, Rainie met his glance and nodded. "Yeah, weird, huh? So, frankly, I have a bad feeling about this. I just want to try to figure him out, so we have a little leverage in case this goes bad."

"Blackmail? You want to be able to do for Greg what he did for you when he got you back into _The Times_?

Rainie looked away, smiling slightly before she grimaced. "_Uhhhh_… let me plead the fifth on that, okay? Honestly? I don't know if that's the direction I want to take… but I do want to make sure we hold all the cards, just in case we need them."

The two sat silently for a long time, Rainie shifting occasionally to try to find a more comfortable position propped up on the many pillows scattered at the head of the bed.

"Works for me," said Evan. "What can I do to help?"

They'd gone about as far as they could with the material they'd been able to gather so far. No, she was going to have to reach outside her level of comfort and actually do some legwork… or at least as much legwork as someone in her condition could manage.

Sitting to her left was a fat file folder. "These," she said, pointing, "are police reports for all of Tritter's cases for the past 15 years. If I'm right, the answer is in here."

* * * *

Over the next few days, Tritter's condition continued to worsen, and with each bit of bad news, his mood soured a little more. As they'd promised House, his team kept their doubts to themselves, even when Tritter accused them of unfair treatment. However, at Chase's suggestion, the one thing they did was document his every comment about House, and they asked the rest of the staff to do the same. Other than that, they tried to abide by House's commandment to treat him as they would any other patient.

* * * * *

"Thanks, Mr. Amberson, for agreeing to meet with us."

As the weathered, rust-colored wooden door swung open, Evan Schuster walked into the modest living room of a drab brownstone in Queens, followed by an apprehensive Rainie Adler moving unsteadily on crutches. Their host was slight and gray-haired, his face clouded with anxiety.

Without saying a word, David Amberson waved Evan toward a seat on a partially cluttered `70s-era sofa and Rainie toward a well-worn brown plush armchair, and then sat across the room on a matching armchair.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"Yes, thanks," said Evan. Rainie demurred; caffeine and its attendant jitteriness was the last thing she needed right this minute. She settled for a glass of tap water.

While their host was in the kitchen, she looked around the room. It was small and dark; ancient wallpaper, faded and yellowed, curled away from the wall in spots. A few water stains on the ceiling suggested that the plumbing probably hadn't been upgraded in a long while. The furniture looked like rejects from Goodwill—castoffs that were too shabby for most people to want them. A beat-up old upright piano sat in the corner. But the place was clean—spotless, in fact, and it was obvious that Amberson had made an attempt to make his home as pleasant as possible.

She glanced down at her notes. Before his run-in with Tritter, Amberson had been a music professor at Princeton. Now… well, one of the questions she wanted to ask him was what he now did for a living.

Evan took the steaming mug from Amberson's shaking hand, and stirred a couple of teaspoons of bright, white sugar into the dark brew.

"I appreciate your willingness to talk to us," he began, knowing that he had to tread carefully or the man would be too frightened to talk. This was Evan Schuster's bread and butter, encouraging reluctant interview subjects to open up about things they'd rather keep private. Except this wasn't his story; it was Rainie Adler's story… or case… or investigation… or whatever she decided to call it.

For three days, the two had spent hours making phone calls, going through Tritter's cases one by one, eventually narrowing the field down to a couple dozen situations in which Tritter seemed to have taken advantage of his position as a police officer for personal retaliation.

Right from the beginning, Evan had volunteered to be Rainie's legman, which didn't actually take all that much convincing. She was clearly terrified at the idea of leaving home, and even more terrified at the thought of having to meet someone new and explain her battered appearance. The amount of abuse she'd suffered had changed her from an assertive, fiercely intelligent and fearless reporter to someone who jumped and shuddered when the phone rang. But once they'd made the appointment with David Amberson, she suddenly insisted on coming along, much to Evan's—and her—surprise. It turned out to be a smart move.

As Evan took the lead, Rainie sat quietly by, occasionally prompting him. Mostly, she just took it all in, fighting her nerves. It hadn't escaped her that Tritter's vendetta against House was a miniature version of Thompson's against House and herself. How many vengeance-ridden nutcases were there in the world that House had run afoul of two of them?

Despite Evan's reassurances and cajoling, Amberson remained as tight as a clam. Just as he was about to give up, Amberson suddenly shifted his attention to Rainie.

"Why are you here?" he asked, uncompromisingly.

With difficulty, she met his gaze. "I wanted to meet you," she replied softly. Evan, recognizing that somehow Rainie might be the key to getting Amberson to talk, kept his mouth shut and just listened, his pen scratching out notes on a tablet.

"I mean, why I am so important that you would come here?"

Still slightly confused, Rainie found herself looking directly at him. "I-I'm not sure what you mean…" she began.

"Look," he interrupted, "let's be honest here. I know who you are—who doesn't?—and my guess is that it's got to be really hard for you to be around other people. So what is it about me that is so interesting that you'd be willing to leave a place where you feel safe and come meet me in person?"

As Amberson waited for Rainie to respond, the room grew so still that Evan could hear his own pulse as the blood rushed in and out of his veins.

Finally, quietly, hesitantly, she spoke.

"I have a friend," she began, then going on to tell Amberson of House's run-in with Tritter and her concerns now that the detective was one of House's patients. "I can't let anything happen to him again," she said. "I just can't. He's been through so much. He deserves some peace… and the opportunity to just do his job without being harassed."

Another silence descended as Amberson thought about it.

"You know," he said, "I had no intention of telling you what happened to me. But if you can come here, and if your doctor friend can overlook the past to treat Tritter's illness with as much objectivity as he can… well, then, I guess it's not such a big deal to tell you my story."

And so he did, hesitantly at first, but after a few minutes, David Amberson began to relax. He even allowed the two to record the interview.

Rainie's first question had to do with Amberson's career. Because of his prison record, the former music professor had been unable to return to his previous position at Princeton; now he gave piano lessons and coached promising singers, barely able to make his rent.

"He followed you?" asked Rainie, once he began to talk. "Let me get this straight. All you did was talk back to him when he was demanding free coffee from a clerk at a 7-Eleven? You accused him of abusing his position as a police officer, and because of that confrontation, you believe that he followed you for an hour just to give you a speeding ticket in retaliation?"

Amberson swallowed nervously. "I-I could swear I wasn't going over the limit… but maybe I was."

Rainie looked at Evan. "Just like Greg," she said, noticing out of the corner of her eye as Amberson reacted to what she said. "Then what happened?"

"A couple of days later, I came home from teaching a class, and the place was… well, it was trashed. My rare recordings and books were thrown on the floor, furniture shoved around. He found some prescriptions—I'd had surgery a few months earlier. He got me on drug charges. Claimed I was dealing. I wasn't… I just hadn't tossed my leftover meds. Thanks to him, I… I spent a year in the state prison in Trenton. While I was in prison, I-I lost everything—my career, my home, everything I owned. My family fell apart—my wife divorced me about six months in. She took my daughters away—I haven't seen them since." Tears welled up in his eyes. "This…" He waved his arm at the collection of mismatched, cast-off furniture. "…is all I was able to afford when I got out. You can't imagine how depressing it is to try to rebuild your life…"

Amberson stopped himself, as if suddenly realizing that, of all the people who might say that to, Rainie Adler probably understood better than anyone else exactly how depressing it was. He glanced at her, then looked away, as if ashamed.

"I'm so sorry," said Rainie. For the first time since it happened, David Amberson heard those words and felt the speaker really meant them. Finally, he thought, someone understood him. Really understood him.

Within an hour, they had the whole story of how a minor interaction with Michael Tritter had accelerated to the point that David Amberson was now terrified to drive his car, fearful that if he got even a traffic ticket he might be sent back to jail. They heard how the facts had been twisted by Tritter to make Amberson seem like a danger to society, and how badly a terrified university music professor had fared in prison.

After thanking him for taking the time to talk to them, Evan and Rainie got back into Evan's car. Rainie let out a relieved breath.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered.


	7. Chapter 7: Foreman

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**This Chapter:** Foreman looked through the conference room door, stunned to see Wilson and Cuddy staring at him in shock. Pivoting slightly to his right, out of the corner of his eye he saw House slide out of the desk chair and curl himself into a defensive ball on the floor next to his desk, his hands wrapped protectively around his head.

**Chapter 7:**** Foreman**

Foreman stood hunched over the microwave, warming up his two-dollar Starbucks venti Caffé Americano. Over the last few days, he'd been increasingly distracted, convincing himself that his real problem was House. Well, maybe House wasn't actually the problem, but confronting his own mixed-up feelings about House was the problem. The more he thought about it, the more his mind refused to come to terms with things. He couldn't accept that perhaps he might have spent years being wrong about House. But if he was wrong, then why was he so angry?

As he sipped the now-steaming coffee and stared out the window, he heard House wheel himself into the office next door and hoist himself into the desk chair.

"Foreman!"

Foreman sighed and headed toward the voice. How the man could yell and whisper at the same time was beyond him.

"What?" he asked impatiently.

"Update," said House, holding an x-ray up to the light.

"It's not macroglobulinemia and it's not abdominal angina," said Foreman, staring at Tritter's chart. He'd found that it was much easier to deal with House if he avoided looking at him.

"Of course it isn't," said House abruptly. "What we need to know is what it _is_, not what it isn't. Any new symptoms?"

"Nothing."

"Any ideas? Thoughts?"

"No, nothing."

"Then why are you still here?"

Something inside Foreman snapped. For some reason, perhaps because his own medical future had been so much on his mind, Foreman thought House was asking why he was still at PPTH, not why he wasn't off running tests or coming up with new ideas. Tired of spending months tiptoeing around his damaged boss, and baffled by his own confused feelings, he suddenly lost control. Even years later, he would remember this moment and wonder with a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach just exactly what it was that made him do it.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Foreman growled, turning his head away from his boss, who immediately pulled away from him in alarm. "I'm still here because of you. It's always been about you—you and your arrogance, you and your problems, you and your issues. Back in the day, you never gave me a chance. Now, I'm stuck here—no one will hire me because of _you_."

Angrily, he strode away from the desk, pacing, his back to the desk and the man who had begun to quake.

"You've resented me from the beginning," he stormed, unseeing, unfeeling, unhearing. "You've done everything you could to hold me back. I don't care what you've been through or why—all I care about is how your problems have taken years out of my life. Here I am—still your lackey, still with no department of my own. I should be running this place, not you, you sorry son of a bitch. You're in no shape to…"

"Foreman!"

"…be here at all, much less to be in charge. I want you out of here, House—God! Sometimes I wish you had just died in prison and saved us all this trouble."

"_Foreman!!"_

Suddenly, Foreman stopped himself as he heard Wilson's furious voice off in the distance.

"Get your ass out here, NOW!"

He looked through the conference room door, stunned to see Wilson and Cuddy staring at him in shock. Pivoting slightly to his right, out of the corner of his eye he saw House slide out of the desk chair and curl himself into a defensive ball on the floor next to his desk, his hands wrapped protectively around his head.

"Oh, God!" Foreman whispered huskily, as he finally realized what he'd just done. He couldn't breathe, and he felt violently sick. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he felt pinpricks of tears behind his eyes. "Oh, hell. House, I-I'm so sorry…"

"Now, Foreman! Now!"

This time it was Cuddy.

Foreman stumbled blindly out of House's office, brushing past Wilson, who was sprinting toward House.

"My office. Now!" said Cuddy furiously, as she turned and stomped off ahead of him.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, when Chase arrived at House's office following Wilson's page, he was shaken to find House curled tightly in the fetal position on the floor under his desk, Wilson kneeling at his side.

"Wh-what happened?" he stuttered, standing frozen in the doorway.

"Help me with him," said Wilson, ignoring the question. "Get me some Ativan, stat."

Within a minute, Chase had returned with the Ativan. Moving swiftly toward House, whose back was to the door, he kneeled softly on the floor at House's side. Gently pushing up House's sleeve, trying to ignore the scarring and irregularities he found there, he injected the Ativan. After a few seconds, he felt House's tense upper arm muscles begin to relax under his hand.

"What happened?" he asked again, his concern palpable.

That was when he noticed that Wilson was nearly as tense as House, his jaw clenched to the point that his cheek was pulsating. He opened his mouth to respond when he was interrupted by House's soft voice muffled by the carpet under his mouth.

"Don't say anything," he whispered, and Chase thought he saw a tear roll down his cheek. "Doesn't matter."

"What do you mean, it doesn't matter?" asked Wilson, his voice hissing through his clenched teeth. "You're on the floor because that son of a…"

"Doesn't matter," House interrupted firmly. "Bound to happen."

Chase sat confused.

"Sorry, mate, but something serious happened here—something caused this."

"Not something… _someone_," Wilson muttered.

"No," sighed House. "I said _no_." He exhaled a long breath and then his eyelids gently closed as the rest of his body went slack.

Once he was completely out, Chase looked over at Wilson on the other side of House. He tingled with curiosity. While he and Wilson rolled House into his back and struggled to lift his supine dead weight into the wheelchair, Chase's diagnostician's mind began to work the puzzle. After a moment, he was pretty sure he had it.

"Tritter?"

Wilson shook his head. Chase thought a moment, and then progressed to scenario number two.

"Where's Foreman?" he asked, placing a slight emphasis on the name, as he lifted one eyebrow and cast an inquisitive look in Wilson's direction.

Wilson looked at him sharply, then raised his left hand toward his face. As if afraid the now-unconscious House would hear him, he pinched the thumb and forefinger together in front of his mouth, twisted his wrist sharply and then flicked his hand away—locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

"Not a word," he said, but his angry eyes met Chase's, acknowledging with a curt bob of his head that Chase had nailed it.

Feeling almost paternal toward his boss, Chase felt anger swelling in his chest. It was a good thing Foreman wasn't present, or he'd have found himself punched in the face.

After Chase and Wilson struggled to lift a nearly comatose House into the passenger seat of Chase's car and shut the door, the two doctors spoke quietly for a moment before Chase walked around to the driver's side.

"Not a word," repeated Wilson at the end of the brief conversation.

Chase nodded in agreement. "Not a word."

* * * * *

A few minutes later, Wilson opened the door to Cuddy's office and trudged in wearily. When he saw Foreman sitting in one of the two wingback chairs across from Cuddy's desk, his eyes flashed with anger.

Cuddy extended her palms outward in a gesture of appeasement.

Wilson, whose own nerves were frayed by months, weeks, years of painful anxiety, was in no mood to be placated. Two years of frustration, of concern, of rage, of desperation—moments when he couldn't let his feelings out for fear of upsetting House—suddenly got unloaded on Eric Foreman.

"What the hell is he still doing here?" he asked heatedly, unconsciously echoing the very question that had precipitated the storm. And then, to Cuddy: "Why haven't you fired his ass?"

"Come on, Wilson. Take a seat, and let's talk about this. But first, tell me how House is."

Wilson slumped into the other chair, and shook his head. "How do you think he is? We've spent two years—two _years_!_—_making his environment safe, and in one minute, you… you… _you…_"—he thrust his arm irately in Foreman's direction—"…destroyed it. What were you thinking?!"

Foreman hung his head, shaking it slowly. He had no good answer. In fact, he had no answer at all.

"Calm down, James," said Cuddy. "Tell me the details, and then we'll deal with this. Fair?"

Wilson took a deep breath, then another.

"He's not good. Not good at all. It-it took me… he was…" So distraught he couldn't even construct a sentence, Wilson finally took another breath and continued. "After a shot of Ativan, he stopped shaking and…" He whispered the next word, as if saying it quietly would make it less appalling. "…_sobbing_…" At this, Wilson shot Foreman a resentful look. Foreman looked stunned, and Wilson was so angry, he was glad to see the look on Foreman's face. "Chase just took him home. Linda's expecting them, and Chase will stay with him till I get there."

Foreman had spent the past forty-five minutes being yelled at—quite justifiably—by Cuddy. He couldn't possibly feel any worse, so he simply stared at the pattern on the carpet. "Oh, man, I'm… I'm _so_ sorry. I-I don't know what happened. One minute I was fine, and the next…"

"The next minute you were screaming death wishes at a man who has been through hell, whose nerves are so frayed he jumps when a truck passes by. There's no excuse good enough," said Wilson, not thinking of anyone but House. "How could you do that to him? How _could_ you?"

"I-I don't know. I just don't know."

The three sat in awkward silence for several minutes.

Finally, Wilson spoke up. He sounded calmer now, less agitated, but no less angry. When he spoke, he clenched his teeth and the words came out in short bursts.

"You really are a shit, you know that? If you'd ever once bothered to get past your misguided perception of House, you'd find a very different person from the one you think he is. House has kept you on when no one else would take you. On top of that, he saved your life… and still you resent him. What's the matter with you, Foreman? You really are your own worst enemy, aren't you?"

Although at that moment Foreman completely agreed that he was his own worst enemy, he said nothing.

"Would you like to know why you can't get another job?"

Wilson's question seemed to come out of nowhere.

Cuddy, sensing where this was about to go, waved her arms at Wilson, trying to head him off. She was unsuccessful. Wilson was too worked up to be deterred. "Well, you just demonstrated it in a nutshell. You're arrogant, self-centered and hotheaded… and frankly, you're not a good enough doctor to justify tolerating all your prima donna behavior. Why House has bothered making those calls for you is beyond me. Right this minute, I don't think you're worth it."

He slammed his hands down _hard_ on the arms of the chair and jerked his head away. As he said it, Wilson knew that some of what he spouted wasn't really fair to Foreman, but he was just angry enough to say it and let it hang in the air with no apologies.

Eric Foreman stopped breathing as time stood still.

"Calls? What calls?" His voice was low and husky with emotion. He didn't want to know. Especially now, after what he'd just done, he really didn't want to know.

Wilson said nothing, his face contorted with anger and his fists clenched.

"What calls, Dr. Wilson? What are you talking about?"

With a noticeable huff, Wilson turned back toward Foreman, glaring at him accusingly.

"If you must know, he's been calling all the hospitals and clinics in the area. He said…" It was nearly impossible for Wilson to keep his feelings under control. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "…He _said _you were too good to still be working for him. He's been trying to find you a better position. But if this is how you behave, you don't deserve it. And you sure as hell don't deserve to be working for Gregory House."

His last sentence was muttered furiously as he turned back away.

Foreman felt the heat of tears once again stinging his eyelids. How could he have been so wrong? How could he have misjudged things so badly? And worst of all, how could he have created this mess? While his mind was bursting, racing from one disturbing thought to another, he never responded to Wilson.

Finally, Cuddy broke the uncomfortable silence. Nearly as angry with Foreman as Wilson was, at least Cuddy could retreat behind administrative duties.

"Dr. Foreman, we've all had emotional difficulties as a result of what happened to Dr. House. It's been especially complicated for those us he tried so hard to save. Your outburst just now makes it clear that your issues are not being dealt with appropriately."

Foreman couldn't agree with her more. He met her eye briefly, then looked back down.

"I hate to do this, Dr. Foreman, but you leave me no choice. You are hereby suspended without pay for the next four weeks, beginning immediately. I strongly recommend that you start intensive psychotherapy, if not here then somewhere nearby. In addition, I want you to get into an anger management program immediately. I'll be writing you up and including this incident in your employment file. If you do not get some kind of help and show me that you are willing to make some major changes, I will have to report your actions to the board. If that happens, do not be surprised if your employment here is terminated. That's all. You may go."

She waved a dismissing hand. Foreman half-stood, looking in particular at Wilson, who refused to return his gaze.

"I-I've been seeing Dr. Yakimura here for a couple of weeks," said Foreman hesitantly. "I'd like to continue, perhaps on an accelerated schedule. But…"

Before continuing, he took a long, slow breath and let it out, thinking about how to word the next part. As a rule, he tended to keep his emotional distance from things—from patients, from co-workers—and their feelings seldom figured into his actions. Today's fiasco made it obvious that this strategy was no longer working for him.

Both Cuddy and Wilson looked at him expectantly, Wilson's anger still quite apparent.

"I'm concerned about coming into the hospital. I-I—damn, this is hard—don't want to risk running into Dr. House and upsetting him again. Really… I never meant to… Maybe I'll see if Dr. Yakimura will see me outside the hospital… or on House's days off."

Cuddy nodded her approval.

Foreman stood all the way up, and stepped closer to Wilson, who looked up at him unwillingly. Wilson's face was still red with fury, his brows knit together and his lips tight in a firm, unwavering line.

"Dr. Wilson, I-I…" Foreman breathed out in exasperation. "I j-just don't know what to say. There's really nothing I can say. No excuse. I lost it. I don't know why. I can't justify it. But I will take responsibility for it."

Wilson's expression softened just slightly as Foreman went on.

"Look, I'm not good with feelings, but I want you to know that I really do admire Dr. House for what he's done and for his diagnostic ability." He finally said aloud what he hadn't been willing to admit, even to himself. "He's a far better diagnostician than I can ever hope to be. I-I don't know why I forgot that, forgot that having a fellowship with him was… well, a prize to be treasured… but I did. Apparently—obviously—I have resentments I never realized I had. It's clear that I need help—I'll take this time to try to work through it. Please… please tell him I'm sorry. I'm… I'm so _so_ sorry."

All of a sudden, Foreman's shoulders began to shake, and Wilson saw tears forming in his eyes. Instinctively compassionate, Wilson jumped to his feet and put his arm around the other man.

Foreman looked up at the ceiling and willed himself to stop. Then he dropped his head again.

"Thanks, Dr. Wilson. And thanks, Dr. Cuddy. I expected—I deserved—to be fired. I appreciate the second chance."

With that, he threw his shoulders back, standing as straight and tall as he could, turned and walked briskly out of the office, leaving Wilson and Cuddy behind.

"You okay?" asked Cuddy, searching Wilson's face and demeanor as he slumped back into the chair.

Wilson thought a moment. "Mmm-hmm. I guess so," he replied, almost unwillingly. He felt drained, but with drops of residual anger still holding on. And yet, in some odd way, the last hour had been cathartic, giving him a chance to release some of his own pent-up anger over House's condition in a relatively healthy way, by channeling it onto Foreman. "I really wanted to flay him."

"Well, you did a pretty good job of it," smiled Cuddy understandingly, "…but I beat you to it."

He looked up at Cuddy, and smiled ruefully. "Maybe this is just what he needed. We've all had problems because of what happened to House, but Foreman held his in more than the rest of us. Plus, he was already toting a pretty big load of garbage where House was concerned. Good thing you got to him first. I'd have decimated him."

Cuddy's laugh was slight, but it broke the remaining tension. Then she got serious.

"So, how is House, really? I saw that look on his face—I hope never to see it again."

"I was being pretty honest before. This just… just _destroyed _him. Not only because it was unexpected and he… felt so threatened… but because it came from one of his own people. Trust has always been so difficult for him. He feels betrayed."

"He's come so far. What do you think? Is this going to set him back?"

"I honestly don't know. Look how well he did after Pevey attacked him. We thought he'd never come out of it… and here he is back at work."

Wilson paused a moment, and Cuddy could see him formulating an idea.

"He's… well, clearly, he's strong-willed—he couldn't have survived all those years if he wasn't. Maybe we see him as weak now because of his physical weakness… or because he feels safe enough with us to let go. But I think that interior strength is still there… somewhere inside him. So I guess my answer holds. I don't know if this will set him back. Maybe he'll be lucky and this will turn out to be a blip on the radar screen. Or not. I've called Jacey Liu and asked her to come over once she's finished with her other patients."

He headed toward the door.

"Hey, Wilson?"

He turned his head back toward her.

"Keep me posted, okay?"

Wilson smiled wearily.

"Sure thing."

* * * * *

Half an hour later, Wilson opened the door to House's duplex, expecting to find a tempest inside. Instead, he heard nothing. Coming through the foyer, he found an empty living room.He looked around, thinking at first that House might be sleeping on the sofa. But no. As he meandered through the living room, he heard soft voices coming from the direction of House's bedroom at the back of the unit. When he arrived at the doorway, he found himself hesitating. What would he find when he saw House? Despite all the months of recovery, House still seemed so fragile—how would Foreman's outburst affect him?

As he approached the door to House's bedroom, Wilson paused a moment, just listening. He heard four voices talking quietly. He picked out the tenor of Robert Chase, the alto of Rainie Adler, the soprano of Linda McAllister and, occasionally, the soft, rough baritone of Greg House. If he was talking, Wilson reasoned, maybe things weren't too bad.

Sure enough. When he neared the room enough to look in, he saw House sitting up, holding a cup of tea in a shaky right hand. Rainie sat beside him, leaning in toward the damaged doctor, holding his left hand in her right. Chase stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the bureau, while Linda McAllister edged past Wilson in the doorway.

"So then," Chase was saying, "he said that his fairy godfather told him to put the marble up his nose."

Linda and Rainie laughed, while a slight wisp of a smile graced House's face.

"That reminds me…," said Rainie, who started telling House about some oddity she'd stumbled across in her days as a journalist.

"How is he?" whispered Wilson as Linda passed him, headed toward the kitchen.

"Not bad, considering," said Linda, turning to look back at her patient. "I expected worse."

As Wilson eased into the room, he sidled up to Chase. Chase glanced at him, nodding his head back toward the hall.

Once out of the room, Chase said, quietly, "He's gonna be okay, I think. Wouldn't have thought so earlier, but damn if he isn't resilient."

Wilson breathed again.

* * * * *

After a three-hour session with Jacey Liu, House was exhausted physically and emotionally. He'd cried himself out, somehow managed to keep down a bowl of chicken noodle soup—even though his stomach had argued with him about it—and finally gotten past the severe shaking that had overtaken him as soon as Foreman had raised his voice. Now, all he wanted to do was rest.

Much to the relief of Linda McAllister and Wilson—both of whom were worn out with the drama of the day—House slept a dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8: Paranoid

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**This Chapter:** Suddenly, Tritter turned toward her, his face distorted with fury. "How do you think I'm doing? You people are purposely messing with me, withholding treatment and making me worse. And it's all the fault of that drug-addicted junkie you work for! It's just as I suspected—he's trying to get even with me. I won't let him get away with it. I'll make sure of it!"

**Chapter 8:**** Paranoia**

The next morning House insisted on coming to work. He was pale and shaken, but he was there, determination oozing out of every pore. He spent the early part of the morning in his office with the doors shut, the lights off and the blinds drawn listening to Mozart as he went over Tritter's latest test results. Wilson ran interference for him, privately taking Devi aside and explaining the situation to her. She and Chase stayed as quiet as they could out of consideration for their boss.

Around 11:30, a tentative House slowly wheeled himself a few feet into the conference room. He looked around as if confused for a moment, and then slowly returned to his office, shutting the door behind him.

Devi and Chase stayed silent for nearly a minute before Devi finally said, "That was odd."

With a quizzical look on his face, Chase shrugged his shoulders.

"What do you think that was all about?" Devi asked.

"Damned if I know," replied Chase. "He seemed to be looking for something."

* * * *

Lisa Cuddy had never believed in magic, but when her office door opened by itself at about 11:45, she momentarily thought that pixies or elves were at work. A few seconds later, the mystic mystery solved itself when she saw the top of House's head as his wheelchair ease its way into her office. She wasn't sure which astounded her more—something magical opening her office door or seeing House at work today.

"H-House. What are you doing here?"

He paused a moment before responding. "Last time I checked," he said, mask back in place, "this is where I work."

For second, Cuddy looked flummoxed. Then she pulled herself together, deciding that if House was going to pretend all was normal, she could, too.

"So, what's up?" she asked, trying to look more relaxed and casual than she felt. Her fidgety fingers found a paperclip on the desk, and after unwinding it she began poking the soft pad of her forefinger with one of the sharp ends.

House's head cocked to one side for a moment and a small smile crept over his face. His voice was even quieter than usual, evidence of the emotional state he was attempting to hide. "What you really mean is how the hell did I manage to get my shit together enough to come in today when my big, bad employee had me sucking my thumb and peeing my pants yesterday."

Cuddy waited a fraction of a second too long before answer, letting House know that his response had left her feeling off balance. "Something like that," she finally replied with a wry smile.

"Wilson tells me you suspended Foreman."

She detected something in his tone of voice—a hint of irritation, perhaps?

"He's lucky I didn't fire him," she said, wondering where this particular verbal dance was headed. Her interest piqued, she leaned forward in her chair, subconsciously bending the paperclip into a new and ever more useless shape.

"Un-suspend him," said House unexpectedly.

"What?" asked Cuddy. "No. No way."

"Yes. Yes way," said House. His eyes locked onto hers and she recognized that immoveable stubbornness at work. She huffed in exasperation.

"House, the man lost it completely—he was totally unprofessional, and he endangered your wellbeing. Next time, he might become violent. Why the hell would you want me to 'un-suspend' him?"

House, who rarely made eye contact anymore, continuing to look her squarely in the eye.

"Because I need him."

Startled, Cuddy fell back in her chair, the leather smacking her in the spine.

"Oh, come on," she said, dropping the paperclip with a tiny clatter onto the wood of her desk. "He can't be _that_ good. All he ever does is argue with you, and roll his eyes every time you suggest something."

House stared her down. "That's why I need him," House said. "I need someone to challenge me—keep me grounded."

It had never dawned on Cuddy before that House might have any idea which role each of his minions actually played in the diagnostic process. To her surprise, this was turning into an interesting conversation.

"_I'll_ challenge you," she counter-offered. She really didn't want Foreman anywhere near House until his suspension was up, not the least because she'd never hear the end of it from Wilson, who had undoubtedly spent the night fuming over Foreman's behavior.

"Not good enough," said House. "I need someone who actually knows what they're talking about."

Ouch. As glad as she was to have House occasionally returning to what passed for normal, she'd forgotten how sharp his tongue was and how ruthlessly he could wield it. Honesty seemed the best response.

"Hey, that hurt," she said. In the past, she would never have dared let him know that his barbs had struck home, but now, he'd suffered enough and perhaps he deserved the truth, deserved to be told when he hurt someone else.

He scanned her face and his eyes softened.

"Sorry," he said, his voice dropping into a low rasp. "Old habits, etc."

"Forgiven," said Cuddy affectionately. "Don't let it happen again."

"Sure. But what about Foreman?"

Cuddy was puzzled. Other than his seemingly flimsy excuse about Foreman's place on the team, why would House have any interest in being exposed to a man who just yesterday had reduced him to a blubbering mess on the floor? And if Foreman was so important to House, then why was he surreptitiously trying to help find him another job?

"Why, House? Why not let him go through his suspension and learn his lesson?"

Sometimes House surprised her, and this was one of those times.

"He's already learned it," replied House, tilted his head to one side and eyeing her through hooded lids. "The minute he apologized—something he _never_ does—it was apparent that he'd 'learned his lesson,' as you so quaintly put it. He feels bad enough. Let him come back."

Quietly stunned that House could be so magnanimous, she took a moment to think it over. On one level, what House said was logical and made sense. On another, she was still furious with Foreman and wanted to see him punished for what he did. So she did what she always did. She offered a compromise.

"How about part-time?" she offered as a compromise. "He works mornings, and takes off the afternoons for his therapy?" Mornings made the most sense, she thought, as House had more energy then and often left, exhausted, by mid-afternoon. Then Foreman could be of the most use. No, that's no good, she thought suddenly, kicking herself for speaking before she'd thought it through. That means he's also have the most exposure to House. Maybe better to have him there when House wasn't. She searched House's battle-scarred face for a response.

She could tell this was a difficult decision for him. He seemed to be pondering whether or not he should push her to let Foreman back full-time. Or perhaps he was wondering how well he'd do around the man who had frightened him so badly the day before. After a moment, his shoulders dropped and all the fight seemed to go out of him.

"Make it Tuesdays and Thursdays," he said quietly, referring to his own days off. "I never said I wanted to see him. I just…" he let the sentence dangle for a moment as he figured out how to end it. Instead, he chose to start a new sentence altogether. "What he did—I expected it. Foreman's not good at understanding things. He grabs hold of an idea—such as believing that all I am is an arrogant ass—and he holds on for dear life. He's had to fight the world to get where he is, and fighting is all he really knows. Now there's something he can't fight—he can't fight what Thompson did to all our lives or how his assumptions about me have been, shall we say, distorted. That internal conflict was bound to break out sooner or later. I don't think he should be punished too much for doing something he couldn't help."

Cuddy stared at House in shock. She'd always known he was a keen judge of human nature, but she'd never heard him articulate his internal thinking before.

"I-I thought you hated psychology," she said, finally.

A tight smile graced his face. "I do," he replied. "I hate the psychobabbly crap that gets taught as psychology—the kind of nonsense that turns into those idiotic self-help books."

"Then how…?"

"Just because I hate all the psychobabble doesn't mean I don't try to understand what makes people tick. Plus," he admitted almost reluctantly, "Jacey Liu has shown me that not all psychology is nonsense. Sometimes it can be practical… even logical."

It suddenly dawned on Cuddy that many of House's most egregious pranks over the years had possibly been his own versions of psychology experiments—testing people to see what they'd do under duress, testing his own theories of human behavior in a live lab setting.

She shook the cobwebs out of her head and tried to get back to the topic at hand.

"Deal," she said unexpectedly. "Tuesdays and Thursdays."

It took House a minute to remember what she was referring to. Oh, yes. Foreman coming in on his own days off.

"Deal," he said, sighing slightly in relief.

* * * *

Around the same time House was having his conversation with Cuddy, Devi entered Tritter's room to check on her patient. After Chase had left House's duplex the night before, he had returned to work, finding Devi pouring over journals in search of the diagnosis. He and Devi had stayed late into the night, probing their minds, textbooks and computers for an answer to Tritter's symptoms. Both of them were beginning to be concerned, not just about Tritter's worsening physical condition but also about his mental stability. As his body got weaker and weaker, Tritter got more and more agitated. His innate paranoia had become an almost constant state of mind. They'd called in a psych referral, but there'd been some trouble scheduling Tritter for an appointment.

Around 10 a.m., Devi checked in on him. She found him sitting up in bed, trying to watch television, although with his increasingly pronounced nystagmus, focusing his eyes on anything for very long was difficult.

"Good morning, Mr. Tritter. How are you feeling today?"

Suddenly, Tritter turned toward her, his face distorted with fury.

"How do you think I'm doing? You people are purposely messing with me, withholding treatment and making me worse. And it's all the fault of that drug-addicted junkie you work for! It's just as I suspected—he's trying to get even with me. I won't let him get away with it. I'll make sure of it!"

Shocked, Devi took a step back.

"You're wrong, Mr. Tritter. I-I don't know what else to say to you, but you're wrong."

"I won't stand for it," yelled Tritter. "I won't stand for it!"

Shaken, Devi turned and stormed from the room.

As soon as she left, Tritter called the Princeton police department, asking to speak to Stanley Skelton.

"Stan, it's Michael Tritter. I need a favor."

* * * *

By the end of the day Foreman had his meltdown, Rainie and Evan had interviewed a couple dozen people willing to talk about what had happened when they crossed paths with Michael Tritter. Eighteen of the twenty-four had eventually gone to prison for various relatively minor reasons, and the remaining six were shy and wary. As with Amberson, most of them responded only because of Rainie's presence.

Once their interviews were collected, organized and entered into Rainie's laptop, Evan printed out three copies—one for him, which he planned to take to work, along with the interview recordings, for safe-keeping; one for Rainie; and one to use as blackmail, if needed.

"Well, we've done it," he said as he tucked the sheaf of papers into his knapsack. "Let's hope the guy's smart enough not to force us to use this against him."

"Smart is not necessarily the adjective I'd use to describe Michael Tritter," said Rainie, sounding more like her old, self-reliant, sharp-as-a-tack self. "Conniving, vindictive, devious, yes. Smart… not really."

Hearing her talk this way reminded Evan of the years they'd shared, as students, as journalists and as friends, before everything went so very wrong, before Rainie had the life and personality literally beaten out of her. The image of an unsullied Rainie Adler appeared in his mind, her quick wit and sharp observations expanding his view of humanity and filling his life with warmth and humor. So he simply smiled. A nostalgic, poignant smile.

Taken aback, Rainie stared at him, bewildered. "What?" she asked. "Why do you look like that?"

Evan just smiled some more, his eyes soft… and perhaps a little moist. "Aw, punkin," he said, finally. "I've missed you so much." He wanted to reach out and hug her, but he'd learned, painfully, that the new Rainie didn't respond well to unexpected physical contact.

Usually perceptive about the motivations of the people around her, Rainie wasn't nearly as good at deciphering other people's reactions to her.

"What? I don't get it."

Evan's grin got bigger. "It's okay, punkin. It's okay. I'm just happy to have you back in my life."

Rainie knew she wasn't going to be able to figure this out, and she was smart enough to let it drop. If Evan was happy to be with her, if something she'd said or done meant something special to him, then she was okay with that.

* * * *

Devi stomped back into the conference room, where she found Chase studiously involved in a ancient textbook. He glanced up when she came in, his eyes narrowing when he saw her annoyed expression.

"You okay?"

"Yes. I guess so," she replied shakily, not entirely sure if it was true. For some reason, she hesitated telling him how much Tritter had upset her, so she deflected onto a different topic. "It's just…" she tilted her head toward House's office. "I-I didn't expect to see him here today."

Seemingly unconcerned, Chase shrugged and tipped back in his chair, his eyes flickering over her face when he thought she wasn't looking.

"He's full of surprises," Chase said nonchalantly.

She smiled an unconvincing smile. "I figured that out almost as soon as I started working for him."

Chase went in for the kill. "So… how's Tritter?"

This time, he stared intently, taking in the way she blanched at his question. She realized she'd underestimated him; he'd seen right through her. There were moments when his ability to pick up on people's feeling was almost as uncanny as House's. She gave up the pretense. "I don't know what to say. He seems completely paranoid," she admitted. "He blames Dr. House for the fact that we haven't solved his case yet. I-it's kind of frightening."

Suddenly, Chase jumped up and headed for the door.

"I should have done this sooner," he said in transit. "Cuddy needs to know what's going on. I-I can't let Tritter do anything that might upset House. After yesterday… after yesterday, I… I feel like I've got to be more proactive. And Tritter's bad news. He's dangerous, and I don't trust him."

They sprinted down the hall, Chase a few paces ahead of Devi. She struggled to keep up. But when they got to Cuddy's office, they found it empty.

"Where's Dr. Cuddy?" Chase asked Jane Montgomery, Cuddy's assistant. "It's important."

Jane looked perturbed.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Chase. She's out of the building—meeting with a donor. She won't be back until late afternoon."

"We need to talk to her now. Can you call her cell?"

"I suppose so. She does hate to be disturbed when she's with a donor. You're sure it's important?"

Chase nodded vigorously. "Yes. It's urgent."

After Jane got Cuddy on the phone, Chase told her they had some concerns about House's patient, without going into detail.

"I'll be back as soon as I can get away," she promised.

"Thanks, Dr. Cuddy," he said. "I've got a bad feeling about this."


	9. Chapter 9: Waiting for Cuddy

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**This Chapter:**

**Chapter 9:**** Waiting For Cuddy**

While Chase and Devi paced in Cuddy's office, waiting for her to return, House sat quietly in his own office, poring over Tritter's case notes, trying to fit the pieces into some kind of pattern that would help him solve the mystery of what was making the detective weaker and sicker every day.

Suddenly, his office door swung open wide. For a second, he expected Wilson or Chase to come barging in, having forgotten that they should open his door slowly to keep from startling him. Instead he saw three large, uniformed men rushing toward him. His heart began beating wildly and he opened his mouth in a silent scream.

* * * *

Pleading a hospital emergency, Cuddy hurried back to PPTH as soon as she could. When she came through the main door, she saw nurse Brenda Previn trying to flag her down.

"Later, Brenda," she said, almost running across the polished marble floor. "I've got a crisis."

Previn followed her through the lobby toward her office.

"I doubt you've got a bigger crisis than this," she panted, hurrying to keep up with the hospital administrator, who was click-clacking across the floor. "Wait… Wait, Dr. Cuddy… Lisa… please. You've got to listen to me."

Reluctantly, Cuddy slowed to a walk and then stopped, turning to face her head nurse.

"What is it?" she asked irritably, pretending to pay attention, but really hoping to get out of the conversation and into her office. Chase's call had disturbed her greatly, and she was eager to follow up on it. "What's going on?" Usually, Brenda Previn was taciturn, but right now, she seemed flustered, determined to force Cuddy into listening to her. Suddenly, Cuddy's heart sped up as she realized that the normally unflappable nurse Previn was shaking. "Come on, Brenda?! What's happened?"

"It's about House," said the nurse. "You have to do something fast. It's… it's horrible." Her face was contorted with alarm.

Cuddy froze. What could have occurred? Had House suffered a breakdown? Was he injured? She _knew_ he shouldn't have come in today.

"What? What is it?" Anxiously, she scanned the nurse's demeanor for clues. Nurse Previn, who had once viewed House with disdain and impatience, had become Cuddy's scout, quietly watching out for House, surreptitiously reporting on his wellbeing to Cuddy. If Brenda Previn thought something horrible had happened to House, then she deserved to have Cuddy's full attention.

"The police—three of them—barged in here… they arrested him. Y-you just missed it." Previn was trembling, perhaps in fear or perhaps in anger… or perhaps both.

Cuddy felt her pounding heart stop beating altogether for a second.

"Oh, dear God! Why?!"

"I-I don't know," said Previn, bent over, hands braced against her thighs as she struggled to catch her breath, to force the unwanted words out. "I-I c-couldn't stop them. They stormed into his office before I had a chance to do anything. Next thing I knew, they dragged him through here. In handcuffs."

"Shit!" said the Dean of Medicine under her breath. "Where did they take him?"

"Don't… know… they wouldn't tell me anything. They just… Oh, God, Dr. Cuddy, he looked so terrified. He was… struggling… crying. He kept yelling, 'No… not again, not again!"

Cuddy saw a solitary tear slowly spill out of Previn's left eye and make its way down her cheek. As she pictured the scene, Cuddy's own emotions about House threatened to immobilize her. She stood motionless for what seemed like an eternity, before her adrenalin kicked in. _No time to panic_, she thought, finally realizing she had to take charge. "Where's Wilson?" she asked, urgently. "Someone needs to tell Wilson."

"I paged him, but he hasn't responded yet. I-I don't think he knows."

"Stop whatever you're doing and go find Wilson. I'll see what I can do."

She turned toward her office, taking three quick steps before she halted again, turning back toward Previn, who was pointed toward the elevator. "Thanks. Thanks, Brenda." Previn nodded a brusque acknowledgment, jumping into the open elevator and poking vigorously at a button until the doors closed. Cuddy headed as fast as she could toward her office. When she got there, she found Chase and Devi Rajghatta waiting for her.

"Why did they do it?" she asked as she flung open her office door, startling Chase and Devi, who were pacing inside. They looked confused.

"Do what, Dr. Cuddy? What are you talking about?"

Clearly, they hadn't heard.

"The police…" She tried to slow her heart rate with a couple of deep breaths. "Nurse Previn says Dr. House was just arrested. The police dragged him through the lobby in handcuffs."

Without warning, Chase leapt to his feet, his face flushed and angry.

"That son of a bitch!" he yelled. "I'll kill him!"

"What? Who? Tritter?" asked Cuddy. Devi just stood, her mouth agape.

"Yes, Tritter," said Chase bitterly. "It's got to be Tritter. He's been making threats."

* * * *

When the three uniformed policemen barged into House's office, he immediately began to quake. It was worse than yesterday, worse than having his own employee wish he were dead. It was his deepest fears coming true. He didn't know how or why, but the whole bloodcurdling ordeal was starting all over again.

"Dr. Gregory House," said one of them, looming over him, "you're under arrest."

House couldn't breathe. He felt himself growing faint.

"W-what?" he whispered, gasping for air. "Wh-why?"

"We have evidence that you have been mistreating a patient. You are under arrest for assault. You'll have to come with us."

In this panic, he couldn't think. Could he have done something wrong? His mind raced, retracing his methodology. He couldn't—_could he?_—have done anything wrong? Anything _that_ wrong? He'd been so careful in his approach to Tritter's case, so why would this be happening? He'd never even been in the man's room. The closest he'd come was when he looked through the window. _He's a bully_ said the small voice in the back of House's head, following by Rainie's voice saying, _Bullies don't like it when someone stands up to them._ But he hadn't stood up to Tritter this time. He was trying to cure the man. And this wasn't Tritter come to arrest him—at least not directly. This was three monster-sized uniformed cops, with tasers and guns and clubs. He couldn't stand up to the police. He looked down and saw his hands trembling wildly.

Even to these hardened policemen, House's panic was obvious.

"N-No. That's not possible," he said, starting to lose control. Desperately, he clung to the logical part of his mind, the part that said this had to be some kind of terrible mistake.

"Yes, sir, it is possible," said one of the policeman, looming over him, holding out a pair of open handcuffs. "According to the complaint, you've mistreated a patient to the extent that it falls within the purview of assault. You'll have to come with us."

As the uniformed man came closer, House shrank away involuntarily, scooting his chair backward as fast as he could until he collided with the wall behind him.

"Now, now, Dr. House," said the cop in a low, menacing voice, an eerie smile on his face. "We don't want to add resisting arrest to the charges, do we?"

As House saw the handcuffs come closer, he closed his eyes, trying to swallow his dread. Suddenly, his years of torment came flooding back. He envisioned himself returned to that prison hellhole… once again sentenced to spend the rest of his life being beaten and raped and tortured.

"Oh… God, no…!" said the doctor, his voice quavering.

The cop saw House's head roll to the side as tears began to stream down his face.

One step behind his fellow officer, Det. John Hershey felt a pang of something akin to pity. He was just there to do his job, but like everyone else with a television or a newspaper, he knew who Gregory House was and what he'd been through. For a long moment, he was tempted to just turn and leave, hating himself for what he'd been sent there to do. But a policeman's lot is not always a happy one.

Reluctantly, he joined his colleague in cornering the petrified doctor, grabbing his flailing arms and pinning them behind the back of the wheelchair before snapping on the cuffs.

"Dr. Gregory House, you have the right to remain silent…"

* * * *


	10. Chapter 10: Under Arrest

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to write this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**This Chapter: **For the first few minutes, he fought it—fought it hard—tried desperately to stay focused on logic and rationality—_no one could let this happen, not again_—but it didn't take long for logic to flee and for him to be sucked down into his own buried terrors.

* * *

**Chapter 10:**** Under Arrest**

Wilson was having a trying day. Despite his best efforts to get House to take a day off, his shattered friend had insisted on returning to work. And now, one of his favorite patients, a young teacher named Arlene Planck, had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. He'd been summoned to her room at 10:30, and had stayed with her through the lunch hour. She had no family to speak of, and so Wilson sat by her side, holding her hand.

A little after noon, his pager went off, but Wilson never heard it. That morning, when he'd donned his crisp white lab coat, Wilson had carefully hung his suit jacket up on the hook on the back of his office door, inadvertently leaving his pager in the left-hand pocket. Once he'd rushed to Arlene's room, he hadn't returned to his office, and so the pager buzzed around aimlessly.

Forty-five minutes after he'd been paged, the door to Arlene Planck's room whooshed open and nurse Brenda Previn entered, breathless. Her quick nurse's eyes surveyed the scene before she quietly approached Wilson, lightly touching his shoulder and beckoning him outside.

"Excuse me a moment, Arlene," said Wilson, gently. "I'll be right back."

His patient looked up at him from eyes sunk deep in a gaunt face. As she struggled to breathe, she watched wanly as he followed the thin, dark-haired nurse out the door, and saw him stand listening, his face reflecting a growing horror as he heard whatever it was the nurse had to tell him. A moment later, the door reopened and he returned to her side. She could tell he was desperately upset.

"Arlene," he began, his voice shaky, "another emergency has come up, and I'm going to have to go. Are you all right here by yourself?"

She nodded. Before he left the room, Dr. Wilson, clasped her hand warmly and looked deep into her eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Those were the last words Arlene Planck ever heard.

* * * *

By the time Wilson got to Cuddy's office, she had already conferred with General Counsel Steve Masala and learned that House was being held at the Princeton Police Station, accused of assault. That the charges had been brought by Michael Tritter surprised no one.

As she and Wilson dashed off to the police station, Devi and Chase remained behind. As angry as he'd been with Foreman the night before, that was nothing compared with how Chase felt toward Tritter now. He was beyond infuriated, begging Cuddy to let him come along to the police station. Quite rightly, she'd turned him down, afraid that his rage would create more problems than not.

"I want to strangle him!" he fumed to Devi after the other two had left. She had never seen him like this. His face was red and his voice trembled as he spoke. "The man is evil—I can't believe after everything that's happened to House something like this could happen. I kept telling you he was dangerous!"

Devi passively accepted his anger, sitting quietly at the conference room table until he wound himself down. She pictured House, petrified and alone, locked up in jail, awaiting whatever was going to happen to him, reliving his own personal hell and terrified that he'd never be free again. Her stomach churned at the realization that a combination of her own naiveté and House's insistence that Tritter be treated like any other patient had caused this situation to fester and escalate.

"I wanted to believe the best," she said at last. "I wanted to think that he was just a patient like any other… that you and Foreman were exaggerating. I thought if we just treated him as well as we could, he'd be okay with it. I-I… I-I just don't know what to say. You were right."

Spent, Chase came over and stood behind her, resting his hand on her shoulder.

"I know you wanted to believe the best," he said, his voice softening. "You gave him the benefit of the doubt… and normally, that would be a good thing. But not with him. Not with Tritter."

* * * *

After being forced into the back of a police car, the handcuffs cutting sharply into the layered scars on his wrists—just like the shackles that had nearly ripped his arms out of their sockets in prison—House began to hyperventilate, his panic slowly overtaking him. For the first few minutes, he fought it—fought it hard—tried desperately to stay focused on logic and rationality—_no one could let this happen, not again_—but it didn't take long for logic to flee and for him to be sucked down into his own buried terrors.

Sitting in the back seat next to the prisoner, Officer Hershey felt a pang of guilt. After everything this man had been through, why would he dare risk arrest for any reason? According to the newspaper reports, he'd gotten a big enough settlement that he never needed to work again. Why would he ever endanger his freedom by doing anything that might lead to this? It didn't make sense. He leaned over and whispered to the trembling man.

"You okay, man?"

House jerked away from him. Stupid question. He clearly wasn't okay.

"N-no…" he whimpered. "Please… n-no…"

To the officer's untrained eye, House seemed to be in some kind of physical pain. Not surprising, Hershey thought, given the observable injuries the doctor had suffered. Did House have any pain medication with him, he wondered. Didn't matter if he did. As soon as he was booked, they'd confiscate it anyway. Then there was the fear. He'd never seen a prisoner react like this. He'd seen anger, violence and sheer nerves, but never anything like the abject terror of the man seated next to him, crouching against the door.

Hershey was a ten-year man, and he'd heard plenty of unsettling stories about Michael Tritter over the years. Something was fishy here, but he had no choice but to follow orders and report in to the chief. He couldn't ignore a direct order, but something about this wasn't right.

"Shut up back there!" yelled Officer Wayne from the driver's seat, jerking his head back around. "Just shut the fuck up, old man!"

"Yeah, shut up!" screeched his parrot of a partner, Officer Barnes.

Suddenly, the car grew unnaturally silent, the trembling prisoner making no noise at all, his face distorted as he held in the cries he wanted to let loose.

"_Shut the fuck up, old man! You're just getting what's coming to you." House felt, more than heard, the footsteps of the guard approaching him. Although it was a regular occurrence, he never got used to it—the fear in the pit of his stomach about what would happen next, the excruciating pain as some part of his body was twisted, sliced or invaded yet again, the humiliation of being treated as less than human. Eventually, he hoped, maybe he could detach himself from what was being done to him, but now… now it was a constant shock. Never a moment to recover, never a moment without fear. He was no longer Dr. Gregory House; he was simply someone else's punching bag and bitch._

Hershey saw House curl in on himself, trying to slide off the seat and onto the floor. Instinctively, he reached over to comfort the man, but his touch made things worse. House jerked away from him and began to whimper again.

"N-no!" House mewled. "N-no. Not again. N-Not again."

"Shut that fucker up, or I'm going to stop and make him shut up!" screamed Wayne, gripping the steering wheel, causing the police car to take a sickening swerve to the right.

This was too much for Hershey. "Leave him alone, you asshole!" he yelled back. "Do you have any idea what this man has been through? If you'd experienced what he has, you'd have given up the first day—and you never would've survived. So if anyone ought to shut the fuck up, it's you!"

When, as if from a distance, he heard Hershey defending him, House stopped crying. Perhaps… perhaps someone would help him. Perhaps there was hope. But then his mind slipped far away, to a different place—a cold, uncharitable place—a place where there was no hope.

*** * * ***

By the time Wilson and Cuddy got to the police station, they had left their initial shock behind and moved on to cold fury. Striding forcefully up to the desk, Cuddy reigned herself in to keep from spewing anger at the desk sergeant, a gigantic, hairy, red-haired man engrossed in a copy of _Sports Illustrated_. This horrible situation wasn't his fault, and venting her frustrations on him wasn't likely to help them get to House.

The desk was high, which made the desk sergeant look that much more imposing. "Hello," Cuddy began, her voice trembling with repressed rage. "My name is Lisa Cuddy. I'm the Dean of Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

The bored sergeant barely glanced up at her.

"Yeah. So?"

She gripped Wilson's arm tightly, her nails digging into the fabric of his suit jacket. He felt her hand twitching. Sensing that Cuddy might be in danger of losing control, and getting the impression that the sergeant was not likely to respond well to a strong female, Wilson put his hand on her shoulder. Pushing her back slightly, he stepped forward. This was the time to be an Alpha male chauvinist.

"Hey!" said Wilson, a little louder than he would normally speak. "You've got a buddy of ours here. We want to pay his bail and get him out."

This time the sergeant paid slightly more attention. Not much more, but slightly more.

"Yeah. So what's the guy's name?"

"Gregory House."

At this, the sergeant perked up, putting his magazine down to scrutinize the two professional people before him. Normally, he liked wielding his power over people like these two, but he'd seen House brought in, and he didn't like how this was going down.

"Him? Uh, sorry, man, but he hasn't been to court yet. Gotta see a judge before bail can get set." Then, surprisingly, he leaned way over the desk and spoke very quietly, as if to share a secret. "You want my opinion? Your friend there shouldn't-a been brought in here in the first place. If anything, this oughta be a civil matter. And probably not even that. Tritter's really a piece-a work."

Wilson glanced over at Cuddy, who gave him a little smile. Hmmm. Dissent within the police force. This could work for them.

"So… when will that be? You see, our friend is… ill. He needs his medications and we'd really like to get him out of here as soon as possible."

Checking quickly over his shoulder to make sure no one else was in the vicinity, the sergeant thought a moment before answering. "Yeah, I'll say he's ill. Couldn't believe it when he came in. Guy was shaking and shivering all over the place. What made those idiots think they had to send three uniformed cops to arrest a guy like that? You know what? I read about him, in the newspaper an' saw it on TV an' all. Guy's a hero. Last thing he needs is a bunch-a cops dragging him into jail. I'd-a shit my pants if it'd been me. I shouldn't be sayin' this, but whatthehell does Tritter think he's doin', sendin' cops to arrest a guy like that? Poor fella—he was scared to death."

For Wilson, hearing how badly House was reacting just made the situation even more urgent. Cuddy still had his arm in a death grip that was beginning to cut off circulation to his fingers. Swallowing his own anxiety, Wilson leaned over the desk to meet the sergeant halfway. "Look, Sergeant…" He quickly scanned the man's nametag. "…Sergeant Duffy. Can we see him? We're really worried about him. Is there anything we can do to hurry this up?"

Their new friend grabbed a stack of papers on his desk and began rifling through them.

"He's due up in a coupla hours. You're lucky. It's Judge Minton. She's none too fond-a Tritter in the first place, and when she sees this… well…" He let the sentence dangle a moment. "Well… she's gonna blow a gasket."

Wilson smiled anxiously. "I guess that's good, right? So, can we see him first—let him know it's going to be all right?"

Duffy nodded. "Don't see why not? He ain't a danger or a threat to no one. And a guy like that oughta have his friends with him."

For the first time, Duffy really looked closely at Wilson and Cuddy. "Hey, are you two some o' the folks he saved? You know, on that list or contract thing?"

Cuddy, who had finally gotten herself under control, nodded. Wilson gazed down demurely. "Yes, Sergeant Duffy. We were both on the list."

"So you really owe this guy, huh?"

"Yes. More than you can imagine. And we don't want to see anything more happen to him."

Duffy, who had already done a 180 since they arrived, now seemed eager to help them out.

"I'll do whatever I can to help you, okay? This ain't right."

"Thank you so much," said Cuddy, smiling weakly. "Thank you so much."

"I'm gonna hafta wait till I can get someone out here ta watch the desk, but then I'll escort you folks back myself… personal."

It took another few minutes for Duffy to get a replacement, but as soon as he did, things moved along rapidly. Within a couple of minutes, Wilson and Cuddy were escorted down a long, gray hall to an iron door. Once it clanked behind them, they found themselves outside a large, gray, cold, hard jail cell, bereft of embellishments except for a stainless steel toilet in one corner and a drain in the middle of the floor. In the corner opposite the toilet was House's wheelchair, faced into the wall.

Near it, on the floor, partially obscured by the chair, was House himself, curled into the familiar ball. He was shaking so hard they could see it from all the way across the holding cell.

"Oh, God," whispered Wilson, bile rising in his throat. He looked at Cuddy, who was so pale, he was afraid she might faint. Her face was distorted with anxiety.

"House, we're here," whispered Cuddy, tentatively moving forward so that she gripped the bars of the cell. She held on so tightly Wilson wouldn't have been surprised to see the bars bend under the strain. "It's okay. We're working to get you out of here."

There was no response from House, as if he hadn't heard them.

Wilson didn't know what to think. All he knew was that he needed to get into that cell and examine House as soon as possible. He turned back toward the policeman.

"Sergeant Duffy, would it be all right if we went in and stayed with him? He needs his meds… and we really don't want him to be alone right now."

Again, Duffy looked around to see if any other officers were nearby to overhear him.

"We're both doctors," said Wilson, trying to cajole the sergeant into unlocking the door. "He needs medical help."

"Yeah, it's fine," said Duffy, unlocking the cell door. "He don't look so good. I'll take responsibility—don't see why the guy shouldn't have whatever he needs. And once Minton hears about this, well, I'd love to be in that courtroom listening. I'll be back when it's time to go into court. In the meantime…" He gestured uncertainly in House's direction. "…do what you can to help your friend."

The door creaked open so that Wilson and Cuddy could slip through into the cell. They felt the vibrations as the heavy door clanged shut behind them. It was a sickening sound. All Wilson could think of was how House must have felt hearing that noise again after all this time. Sidling up to the corner of the cell, staying as quiet as he could, he approached his friend. When he saw House, who seemed to have regressed back to his post-prison semi-catatonic condition, he felt queasy.

"House… House, it's Wilson. We're here."

As far as he could tell, House hadn't even heard him.

Slowly, gently, Wilson knelt down on the cold cement floor next to his friend. He reached out a tentative hand toward the shaking frame but stopped short of actually touching House. He heard Cuddy kneel down behind him. He tried to keep his voice light and his tone optimistic.

"Hey, big guy… it's okay. We're here now. No one is going to hurt you. We'll have you out of here in no time."

The shaking seemed to diminish, but it was hard to tell.

"House… Greg… It's Wilson. Cuddy's here with me. We've got a lawyer working to get you out. This…" Wilson's words caught in his throat. "…This won't be like last time. No one is going to hurt you. I promise." His voice cracked. He swallowed before trying again. "I promise you. No one's going to hurt you again."

Now shaking himself, he reached over gingerly, and gently laid a trembling hand on House's shoulder, expecting his friend to shy away. But he sensed no reaction whatsoever. Wilson's felt his insides grow cold. Moving his hand across House's shoulder, he began to tenderly rub soothing circles on House's back. Still no response.

"Come on, House. Turn around and look at us. We're here to help you… to get you out of here."

Nothing.

The truth was that House didn't hear them, and he never felt Wilson's feathery touch. Somewhere during the ride to the police station, he had retreated so far inside himself that nothing could penetrate. It was a protective measure his mind had developed during his time in prison. Once he'd figured out how to block out the taunts and to distance himself from feeling the blows, he had been able to totally dissociate from his surroundings. And now, despite two years of progressive recovery, the stress of being arrested and returned to an environment so similar to the one he had left made it far too easy to slip back inside, to shield himself from what was happening around him.

For Wilson, it was all frighteningly familiar. The way House held himself, wrapped up tight, and the fact that he wasn't responding, was too similar to the semi-catatonic House he'd hoped never to see again. In a mere couple of hours, House had reverted to the state he'd existed in for nearly a year following his release from prison. Wilson held his breath, terrified to think of facing that trauma again.

Dismay apparent on his face, he looked over at Cuddy. She saw his face grow white as tears welled up in his eyes.

"I…I can't reach him," he whispered.

TBC… 


	11. Chapter 11: Judgment

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** Wilson felt a chill as he realized that House was begging not them, but some unseen tormentors. He was still trapped somewhere deep in his own mind, drifting swiftly from dissociation to a flashback that seemed to him as real as the jail cell was to Wilson and Cuddy.

**Chapter 11:**** Judgment**

When Foreman heard Chase's voice on his cell phone, he listened, stunned, as Chase told him that not only had House been arrested and dragged handcuffed through the lobby of the hospital, but that he was in jail. Then his stomach dropped and he couldn't hold on any longer.

"I'll… I have to call you back," he said, hanging up urgently, as he began to throw up, vomit spewing all over the phone, all over his lap, and all over his expensive leather couch. Twenty minutes later, after he'd managed to clean himself up, he called Chase back.

"Sorry, man. I-I just couldn't take it."

"Mate, you are massively lucky I didn't see you yesterday," said Chase bluntly. Foreman couldn't blame him for his reaction. He wasn't positive about it, but he thought he detected a note of understanding in Chase's tone of voice. "After what you did to House, I wanted to smash your face in. But this is so much worse… and I know—I _know_—you wouldn't have wanted this to happen to House, no matter how you might feel about him."

"No, no. Of course not," said Foreman, sighing. "I'll be there as fast as I can. House doesn't deserve this—he didn't deserve what I did, either. But I'd better not see Tritter when I get there, because I'm not sure I can be responsible for my actions."

"I'll bet I can beat you to him," said Chase, a hint of humor creeping back into his voice. "I'm struggling really hard to remember the Hippocratic Oath right about now."

* * * *

At the duplex, Linda McAllister quietly hung up the phone and trudged slowly toward Rainie Adler's bedroom, procrastinating the need to tell her the news.

* * * *

Lisa Cuddy was afraid that if Wilson couldn't reach House, it would be impossible for her to get through, but she was determined to give it a try. Taking her cue from Wilson, she kept her voice low and her movements minimal. Creeping closer and gently laying her hand on House's trembling arm, she almost jumped when he pulled away, just slightly, at her touch. When Wilson felt House's flinch under his fingers, he sighed. _Maybe we're getting through_. He continued to rub House's back.

"House, it's Cuddy." She inched even closer. "Greg… can you hear us? Wilson and I are here to help you. We'll be able to take you away from here soon. It's going to be all right."

As gently as she could, she put her hand on his arm and squeezed reassuringly. Again, he flinched.

"We… we… _love_… you, House. And we're here to protect you. We won't let anyone hurt you… not ever again. Please… if you can hear us, let us know."

As if through a thick fog, House heard her words. Forcing himself to come back from the safe, secure world inside his mind, House turned his face an inch to the left and timidly lifted his eyes to meet Cuddy's in a moment of flickering eye contact. Quite suddenly, he was aware of Wilson's hand on his back.

"Save me?" he pleaded pitifully. "Get me out of here." Then, abruptly, his voice changed and the tears dried up. "I-I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I'm sorry. I'll be good. D-don't… don't… no, not that! Oh, God, nooooooooooooo…!" House's plaintive wail echoed off the hard walls of the jail cell.

Wilson felt a chill as he realized that House was begging not them, but some unseen tormentors. He was still trapped somewhere deep in his own mind, drifting swiftly from dissociation to a flashback that seemed to him as real as the jail cell was to Wilson and Cuddy.

A guarded look of alarm darted from Cuddy's eyes. "What's happening?" she whispered.

"Flashback," whispered Wilson out of the corner of his mouth. At least he knew what to do about flashbacks—hold House tight until it was over, and ask him his name, where he was and anything else that might ground him in reality. Wilson settled himself on the cement floor, and reached down to put his arms around his trembling friend. Following his lead, Cuddy did the same. The two murmured quiet words of reassurance as the warmth from their bodies filtered into House's quaking form on the cold cement floor.

After what seemed like an eternity, House came back. Finally, he shifted under them, relaxing his tense body and dissolving into tears.

"It's okay, House," whispered Wilson for the umpteenth time. "It's okay. We're here."

"It's okay?" House repeated, pleadingly. "Okay?"

For a moment, Cuddy was frozen. She hadn't been around for most of House's recovery—just the occasional visit when Wilson thought he was up to it—so this was new territory for her, and she found it painfully disturbing. Her prized diagnostician, the man who just this morning had challenged her to return Foreman to his job, was now lying on the floor of a jail cell in this pitiable state. Except that pity was the last thing House would ever appreciate. Without thinking, she said the first thing that came into her head, vaguely remembering Wilson telling her once that House responded better to women than to men, perhaps because women had never tortured him.

"Yes, Greg, it's okay," she said firmly. "Now, don't you think it's time to get your ass off this freezing floor and pull yourself together before you have to go to court?"

Wilson stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. _"What the hell are you doing?!"_ he mouthed, appalled.

House, however, reacted to Cuddy's words, sitting himself up, pushing against the hard floor and struggling to unwind the tight muscles that had been wrapped in a circle around his body for the past couple of hours.

While Wilson glared at Cuddy and she uncertainly glared back, a soft, deep voice got their attention.

"So, are you two just going to sit there, or are you going help me get back in this fucking chair?"

After a quick gasp, Cuddy broke into laughter. Wilson, a little slower on the uptake, hadn't quite figured out what was happening.

"I might, House, if you promise never to scare the crap out of me like that again," said Cuddy.

Finally, Wilson caught on. Shocked out of his reverie, he slowly began to laugh. "For Christ's sakes, House, if you'd told me two years ago that all I needed to do was treat you like a recalcitrant four-year-old, we'd have saved ourselves a lot of bother."

Struggling to get himself upright, House looked over at Wilson, extending his left arm for help. "Two years ago," he said, weakly leaning on Wilson for support, "it wouldn't have worked. Today… it worked." He looked up at Cuddy, who was leaning over him. "Or maybe I just wanted to get a good look at those milky-white breasts."

It was the first time in years that House had joked about her décolletage, and Cuddy wanted to cry. Instead she stood up behind House and helped Wilson hoist him back into the wheelchair.

"All you had to do was ask, House. All you had to do was ask."

* * * *

The vibration of his cell phone went ignored for nearly two hours, but finally Wilson could ignore it no longer. When he pulled it out of his pocket and saw the caller ID, his heart sank. Linda had been calling. After whispering to Cuddy, he stepped quietly to the far side of the cell and returned the call. As it rang, he closed his eyes and berated himself. He should have called her back, should have let her know what was happening so Rainie wouldn't worry. The last thing House would want was for his patient to suffer because of the arrest.

He was startled when Rainie, not Linda, answered the phone. She sounded surprisingly calm; he'd been sure that finding out about House's arrest would send her back into her own terror-ridden memories. Although he detected a quaver in her voice, the news she delivered more than made up for it.

* * * *

"All rise."

All except House rose as Judge Sandra Minton entered the courtroom, sitting themselves down again once the judge was seated behind the bench. The courtroom was small; the judge's bench was high. Judge Minton, a large, gray-haired woman in her mid-50s, carried herself with the demeanor of someone who knew that she was the god of this universe, and that everyone had better genuflect to her.

"Michael Tritter vs. Dr. Gregory House," said the bailiff.

At Steven Masala's nod, Wilson rolled House forward a few feet.

Judge Minton took a moment to glance through the complaint on her desk. As she got to the bottom of the page, her mouth contorted into a frown. She glanced up, getting her first real look at the defendant, and her eyes widened slightly as she saw a scarred, battered and frail man trembling in a wheelchair before her. Then, the lightbulb snapped on over her head as she realized who he was.

"_Uhhh_…" she began, momentarily speechless. "_Uhhh_… Dr. House, would you please approach the bench with your attorney?"

Masala stepped forward, motioning for Wilson to push House closer. A fine shiver wafted over House's body.

"Dr. House? I have a few questions for you as part of this preliminary hearing. Do you think you're up to it?"

The man before her was clearly terrified. He nodded in acquiescence.

"I'm sure that everyone here is aware of what you've been through and why. My question for you is this: Given how traumatic your experiences must have been, would you ever intentionally do anything that might lead to your arrest?"

After a short pause, House shook his head decisively. "Hell, no," he replied, his quiet voice carrying through the unnatural stillness.

There was a titter of laughter in the courtroom. Minton looked around and glared.

"I understand your settlements have left you wealthy enough never to have to work again. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Your Honor." House spoke up as clearly as he could, although his scarred vocal cords prevented him from producing much volume and his fear added an embarrassing waver.

"And yet, you chose to return to your job, and willingly accepted as your patient Michael Tritter, who at one time attempted to have your medical license revoked and tried to have you sent to jail. Is that also correct?"

"Yes."

"Why would you do that? Why would you agree to treat Detective Tritter?"

House let the question sit unanswered for a moment before dropping his head and mumbling his answer.

"I'm sorry, Dr. House. I can't hear you. Would you please speak up?"

House swallowed, and then tried again. "Because he's a patient who needs to be diagnosed." Haltingly, he continued. "And because… because the alternative is… having… n-nothing to do, having t-time to… to th-think… t-to remember…"

A couple of hot tears traced a path down his cheek, tears he brushed angrily away as quickly as they fell. To reassure him that he wasn't alone in this, Wilson gently placed a reassuring hand on House's shoulder.

The judge looked away. Wilson thought he detected a shiny film on her eyes. If he was interpreting it correctly, she seemed ashamed of herself for having upset him. Then she paused a moment to give House a chance to compose himself.

"Do you think you can answer a couple more questions for me, Dr. House?"

House swallowed, and exhaled a deep breath. Then he bobbed his head. "Yes, Your Honor. Go ahead."

"I understand you specialize in diagnostics—in finding the answers when no one else can. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"So, can you tell me what kind of illness Det. Tritter has?"

House, relieved to slip back into professional mode, answered more promptly. "I… I don't know yet, Your Honor. M-my team and I have been working on it."

"How long has this taken so far?"

"About a week."

"And do you currently have any other patients?"

"Nope. Not a one." He added "Your Honor" as an afterthought.

"How many people on your team?"

"Three, besides me."

"And can you tell me how long it usually takes to figure out a patient's diagnosis?"

House shrugged, seeming to gather strength as he spoke. "Every case is different. Sometimes we figure it out immediately. The longest case I ever had took nearly a year. The most frustrating cases don't get solved until after the patient has died."

"I understand you're considered the court of last resort for most of these patients—their only hope. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And I also understand you're considered one the top diagnosticians in the world. Is that also correct?"

"So I've been told."

The judge made a notation on the paper before her.

"Help me to understand what you do. Would you explain to me the process involved in finding the correct diagnosis?"

House thought a moment before answering the question. The few spectators in the courtroom craned their necks as they attempted to listen to the soft, scratchy voice, which grew in strength and volume as he spoke, finding confidence as he focused on the details of his profession.

"It varies. We generally start with a patient history. We study the symptoms and compare them with our database of known diseases and conditions in an attempt to find a match. We check out the patient's home and workplace for possible toxins, if that seems appropriate. Based on what we learn, we frequently try various treatments to see if the patient responds well… or not. Finding the answer is often a process of elimination. The human body can be subject to an almost infinite array of infirmities—sometimes we have to remove from the equation any variables that interfere with finding the actual cause of the patient's illness. Occasionally, it's just a moment of inspiration… but always based on the evidence."

This was the first time Wilson had ever heard House articulate what he did. There had been moments during the past two years when his behavior toward House prior to his imprisonment had been mirrored back to him in less than flattering terms. This was one of them. Suddenly, he felt a twinge of embarrassment for the many times he had accused House of solving his cases merely through luck. He suddenly realized that it wasn't simply luck. It was a rare combination of science and art. More to the point, how dare he, an oncologist, presume to criticize the work one of the world's greatest diagnosticians? Biting his lip, he hung his head, leaning heavily on the handles to House's wheelchair.

"Thank you for explaining it so clearly, Dr. House. Tell me, how directly do you get involved with patient care? What I mean is, how often do you personally—not your team—actually meet with your patients?"

"Never," replied House promptly. He appeared startled by the question. "I never see patients." Of course not, thought Wilson. It was bad enough before, but now there's no way he'd go see a patient.

"Why?" The judge seemed genuinely interested in his answer.

Haltingly, his hand shaking, House pointed toward his face.

"D-don't want to frighten them."

As Wilson glanced around the half-full courtroom, spectators averted their eyes, as if they were discomfited to have been caught staring at House up till now.

"And before? Did you see patients _before_?" She left her question open-ended, reluctant to say what it was she really wanted to know, and hoping the defendant would understand what she was asking. He did.

"Seldom," replied House succinctly.

"And again, why?"

"First off, I… don't exactly have the best people skills. Second—and more important—seeing patients gets in the way of my ability to be objective. It's extremely important to avoid letting my emotions interfere with finding the answer. Feelings lead to bad judgment calls. It's best for the patient in the long run if I stay away."

Judge Minton appeared thoughtful.

"Thank you for your honesty, Dr. House. Now, can you swear to me that you were treating Det. Tritter fairly and to the best of your ability, that your emotions about your past run-in with him didn't get in the way of his treatment?"

House looked her straight in the eye, his intense blue eyes meeting her brown ones.

"I believe I can, Your Honor. At least I've been attempting to."

"No desire to redress the wrong he did you eight years ago?"

Wilson found himself staring at the judge. Was she aware that she had automatically taken for granted that Tritter had done House a wrong? Apparently so. Apparently, she assumed that Tritter was at fault, and that House had been a victim. Sergeant Duffy's words suddenly came floating back to him. _"You want my opinion? Your friend there shouldn't-a been brought in here in the first place. If anything this oughta be a civil matter. And probably not even that. Tritter's really a piece-a work."_ Maybe House had been right all those years back—maybe Tritter really had manufactured the whole thing. He felt himself flush as he considered the possibility that, once again, he had underestimated his friend, devalued House's judgment of what had happened and why.

Although Wilson's mind was wandering, House responded quickly, and seemed surprised by the question. "Why would I care about something that happened then?"

"I don't know—revenge, perhaps?"

House looked baffled.

"What for?"

"Dr. House, I'm beginning to think I know the answer to this question, but do you hold any sort of grudge against Mr. Tritter?"

Again, he looked perplexed.

"No. None at all. He's just a case to me. A mystery to solve."

Judge Minton had no response. She thought a minute, then asked another question.

"So you would swear under oath that neither you nor your team had any reason to delay Det. Tritter's treatment or do him injury while he is in your care?"

House appeared to ponder the question seriously. "Of course, I can't speak for all the members of my team, but I have instructed them to be very careful to treat him as they would any other patient."

The judge interrupted. "Is that documented, Dr. House?"

From her seat back a couple rows, Cuddy stood up. "Judge Minton?" she asked. "May I approach the bench?"

The judge nodded her approval; Cuddy stepped forward.

"I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the dean of medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and also Dr. House's boss. I was aware of Dr. House's instructions to his staff," she said.

Wilson jumped in. "Your Honor, Dr. House also informed me of his wishes in no uncertain terms, and I would be glad to testify to that fact."

"That won't be necessary," said the judge. "This is not a formal hearing. You both have answered my question sufficiently. Now, Dr. House, how about you? Could you answer the question, please? Did you delay Det. Tritter's treatment or in any way cause him an injury while he has been in your care?"

"No, Your Honor. I have never even been in his room. I just want to find out what's killing him, so he can get treatment and leave the hospital. The sooner, the better."

House jumped when Minton tapped her gavel.

"Case dismissed," she said firmly. And then, as she rose to leave the courtroom, Wilson heard her mutter quietly through her teeth, "What a farce."


	12. Chapter 12: Vindication

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** "You've lost, Mr. Tritter. You've lost, and Dr. House is back at work, where he will do his best to find a cure for whatever is making you so ill. Despite your best efforts, he's back… and we're delighted. Frankly, you ought to be, too. He's your only hope."

* * *

**Chapter 12:**** Vindication**

Back at the duplex, Rainie gathered the files she and Evan had put together, the multiple interviews they had conducted with other people Tritter had persecuted. When the call finally came from Wilson that House's case had been dismissed by the judge, she found herself with mixed feelings. Enormously relieved that House was no longer in jail, she was also embarrassed to realize that she was vaguely disappointed she hadn't been able to come to the rescue with her cache of evidence. Quietly, she put the files aside, just in case they might be needed later on.

* * * *

Two hours earlier, Foreman had arrived at the hospital. When he came through the Emergency Room doors and took the right toward Diagnostics, he felt his heart pounding in his chest. A man who seldom looked inward, who masked insecurities with a show of extreme confidence, Foreman had spent the last day shattered, unable to think of anything but House and what had happened between them. For hours, he had gone back over the last few years in his mind, slowly coming to the conclusion that he had missed the symptoms of House's true character… that he had been unwilling to apply his own diagnostic methods to the world around him.

_Everybody lies_ kept resounding in his head. And the big lie for House had always been that what you saw on the surface was almost completely unrelated to what was underneath. Little moments came back to Foreman, almost unbidden, and he realized he'd had the clues all along, but had chosen not to look at them. _If I did that medically, none of my patients would ever survive_, he thought_._

For the first time in his life, Eric Foreman was tentative, unsure of himself… and very disturbed to have discovered what he was capable of doing.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door to the Diagnostics conference room, and stepped inside.

* * * *

When the doors to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital slid open and Wilson rolled House's wheelchair into the building, neither they nor Cuddy were prepared for what awaited them.

Dozens of people in multi-colored or patterned scrubs, or in white lab coats—perhaps as many as 100—were gathered around the big, circular reception desk, alerted by a call from Cuddy to Brenda Previn, who had quickly spread the word. As Wilson pushed the chair into the lobby, spontaneous applause broke out.

Momentarily frightened, House looked around, confused, wondering what was going on. He shrank into the wheelchair; Wilson could feel House's head hitting his stomach as he craned backward. The applause grew, and they began to hear voices yelling "Bravo" and "Good for you, House." Out in the crowd, he saw Brenda Previn, Chase… and Foreman… all applauding and shouting their approval.

"Wh-what the hell is going on?" he asked Wilson with a show of bravado he didn't quite feel. "Why are they… cheering?"

Wilson felt his eyes glisten as he realized just how many people on staff had grown to care about his curmudgeonly friend. Word of his arrest must have spread swiftly through the hospital's grapevine, and word of the case's dismissal just as fast.

"They're on your side, House. They're on your side."

House hung his head. He seemed to be mortified by the attention.

"Then they're all idiots," he muttered, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. Behind Wilson, Cuddy broke out into a big smile and nodded encouragingly to her staff, waving her arms like an orchestra conductor to promote more applause.

After a few minutes during which the applause continued to grow, Wilson started to roll House's chair through the lobby. Slowly, the cheering died down. People cut him a wide berth, clearly not wanting to frighten House or to impinge on his privacy. As House passed, many of the people gathered—nurses, doctors, janitors, administrative and security staff—removed their caps and bowed their heads in deference.

"This is pathetic," said House out of the corner of his mouth. "I didn't do anything except convince a foolish judge to give me a Get Out of Jail Free card."

Above him, Wilson grinned. If that's what House wanted to think, then fine. But it was obvious that the people he worked with thought differently.

"They're just glad you're okay, House. Appreciate it. Moments like this don't happen very often. By tomorrow, they'll be back to being the same old idiots who find you annoying and impossible."

As Wilson looked down, he thought he saw a hint of a smile flicker across House's face before the usual derisive mask slid back in place.

* * * *

Two floors up, Tritter woke up to hear an odd sound, a bright echo that wafted up the stairwells and through the halls. Just as he had propped himself up in bed, Devi Rajghatta entered his room.

"What's going on?" he asked irritably. "What's that noise?"

Devi, who was not feeling particularly charitable toward her patient at the moment, replied bluntly.

"That," she said with some warmth, "is the entire staff greeting Dr. House."

Confused and drowsy, Tritter tried to reconcile the sound he heard with what she'd said. House was in jail, where he belonged. There's no way he could be here in the hospital.

"I don't get it. What do you mean? How did he get bail?"

Devi stared at him coldly.

"No, I guess you wouldn't get it, would you?" She grabbed his chart, staring at it intently to avoid doing anything unprofessional. "He didn't get bail, because he didn't need it. Your case… your malicious, unfounded case… was dismissed by the judge. The staff is letting him know they're glad he's been released from jail." Then, making direct eye contact with her patient, she said, "You've lost, Mr. Tritter. You've lost, and Dr. House is back at work, where he will do his best to find a cure for whatever is making you so ill. Despite your best efforts, he's back… and we're delighted. Frankly, you ought to be, too. He's your only hope."

For once in his life, Michael Tritter was at a loss. As Devi continued to glare at him, he shrank back against the pillows.

"A-Are you telling me that people are actually cheering because that son-of-a-bitch has been set free?"

Devi continued to glare, not even attempting to hide her anger now.

"Yes, Mr. Tritter—the entire staff—except those of us who are needed elsewhere. Everyone has gone down to the lobby to welcome him home."

"And they're… they're _still _cheering? That's the noise I hear?"

She dropped his chart back on its hook and turned to leave the room.

"That's exactly what I'm telling you, you vindictive bastard," she said, smiling to herself, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

* * * *

Devi woke with a start to find herself draped over the conference table, her face mashed onto the crumpled pages of an internal medicine journal. Through the door to the office she could hear the cheers as House returned to work. Blinking slowly, her dream about confronting Tritter slowly receding from her memory, she realized she must have dozed off while waiting for House to return. Pushing herself back from the table, she stumbled to her feet and went to join her colleagues in the lobby.

Upstairs, no one told Michael Tritter that his nemesis—and potential savior—had not only been released from jail, but had been granted a hero's welcome upon his return. So, with a smug and contented smile on his face, Tritter lay his head down on the pillow and went to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13: Aftershocks

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** Wilson was staggered. House had never shared this information with him… or anyone else, to Wilson's knowledge. Almost like finding the crucial piece of a jigsaw puzzle, everything suddenly began snapping into place.

* * *

**Chapter 13:**** Aftershocks**

Not surprisingly, nightmares plagued House's sleep, torturing him with memories and dread. The dreams were hallucinatory and dark, misty and fearsome, not like his usual imaginations, so real that he'd wake up believing himself back in prison. No, these were vaguely unsettling tempests of the soul, taunting him, teasing him down dark corridors and abandoning him abruptly, friendless and soulless, with no hope and no future.

Wilson had set himself up in the recliner next to House's bed, expecting to be awakened in the night by screaming. Instead, he slept through the worst of House's dreams, which were punctuated only by the occasional whimper or soft cry. When Wilson woke up, he saw that House had slid down off the soft pillows into the middle of mattress, twisting himself up in the bedclothes, the comforter and sheets wrapped tight around his body. The whole bed seemed to be trembling.

"Hey, House," whispered Wilson. The comforter shifted slightly. Wilson tried again. "Want some breakfast?" The bedclothes rocked back and forth, suggesting that _no_, he didn't want breakfast. "Coffee?" This time, graying hair poked out through the top of the covers, and the head attached to it seemed to be nodding.

"Great," said Wilson, dropping the leg rest of the recliner and scooting forward into a standing position. "I'll go get it started. Maybe by the time you're up, you'll feel like having breakfast." Carefully, he walked around the bed and bent over the tousled covers, laying his hand where he assumed House's shoulder was. As always, there was a moment of tension before House relaxed under his hand. "I'll go check on Rainie, okay? You just stay here as long as you want to." The grey head bobbed again. As he crossed the room, Wilson heard a muffled whining sigh behind him as House fell back asleep.

After Wilson slipped on a plush bathrobe and a pair of warm slippers, he headed down the hall toward the living room. Passing Rainie's room, next to House's, he saw no one inside; she must already be awake. Sure enough, he found her in the living room, TV remote in hand, watching an old movie with the sound down low.

"`Morning," he said quietly.

Barely looking up at him, she replied, "There's Danish on the counter. Linda picked it up yesterday morning… before all the brouhaha."

He eased onto the couch next to her. "And how are you doing? I was concerned…" He let the thought drift off.

Shrugging slightly, she continued to stare at the television. "Okay, I guess."

Not sure how far to push it, he said, "So that's good…?"

Turning her head slightly toward him, she nodded. "I didn't freak out, if that's what you're asking."

He waited a moment to see if she would volunteer anything else. She didn't.

"About what you mentioned… _umm_… on the phone…"

She looked away, almost as if she were somehow ashamed of the research she and Evan had been doing. "I couldn't simply do nothing," she said, cryptically.

"Uh-huh… And what made you figure out that, well, Tritter might have been… I don't know… up to something?"

She shrugged again. "I don't know. Journalist's instincts, I guess. I've always been…" Pausing uncomfortably, she changed tenses. "I always… _was…_ pretty good at figuring out people's motivations. Somehow, I just knew in my gut that Greg hadn't allowed that whole mess to escalate without a reason."

Wilson felt himself flush, thinking back on how easily he had assumed that House's drug addiction and difficult personality had been wholly responsible for the Tritter mess, never once giving his friend credit for his insistence that Tritter was harassing him.

"What… _umm_… what made you think so? I mean, what exactly tipped you off?" he asked, still tentative.

Now he had Rainie's complete attention. She hit the mute button and reluctantly put down the remote, turning toward him and making brief eye contact for the first time.

"I guess I'm a little surprised Greg never told you this… or… then again… maybe I'm not."

Wilson looked stricken.

"Told me _what_ exactly?"

Rainie looked away, as if pondering whether or not to continue. She glanced over her shoulder toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms, then lowered her voice. "When Tritter came into the clinic that day, almost the first thing he did was harass Greg. When Greg refused to perform a useless test, the asshole tripped him—knocked his cane out from under him—it… it humiliated Greg."

Wilson was staggered. House had never shared this information with him… or anyone else, to Wilson's knowledge. Almost like finding the crucial piece of a jigsaw puzzle, everything suddenly began snapping into place. It took him a moment to realize that Rainie had continued talking while his mind had absented itself.

"…so when the ketamine treatment began to fail, and you refused to prescribe pain medication…"

"Wait a second," Wilson interrupted. "What did you just say?" Wilson felt his face flush again. How _did_ she know all this?

"Don't tell me you never put it together, James," she said softly. "Surely you realized that it was all interconnected."

"Did House tell you this?" Not for the first time, Wilson found himself feeling vaguely jealous of the close relationship House had developed with his damaged patient. In his own ears, his question sounded petulant and accusatory.

Cocking her head, Rainie looked at him curiously. "No… not all of it. Some of it was just good old-fashioned legwork. Back when… _before_… when I was researching Greg for _The Times,_ I did my homework."

"How could you figure this out? How could you know about the ketamine? About the pain meds? And how is that related to Tritter?"

Rainie smiled sadly, not wanting to hurt the man who had been such a good friend to House, and to her. "It is—_was—_my job to learn the things people try to keep secret, and I was very good at my job, James," she said, reaching her hand out to lay it gently on his forearm. "There were plenty of people who had pieces to the puzzle. I just put them together. You were probably too close to see it, that's all. Greg was really depressed, and afraid, when the ketamine wore off. When you wouldn't—or couldn't—see that the pain was coming back, he forged those prescriptions. Out of fear, sheer terror that he would have to go through the returning pain with no medical relief. And psychologically, it was probably as bad—maybe even worse—for him than when his leg was injured initially. He'd had such high hopes—briefly tasting the life he might have lived—and now they were dashed. It had to have been very hard for him."

_Maybe even worse_, she said. How could it have been worse than the days/weeks/months/years after House's original leg injury? Then, Wilson had been there for his friend, patient in the face of his anger, comforting when the pain shrieked through him, supportive when his emotions were shredded. But when the ketamine wore off, Wilson hadn't given House's state of mind much thought, shrugging the whole thing off as a minor disappointment, willfully ignoring the signs that the pain was rushing back in to create terror and misery in its wake. Wilson swallowed and looked down toward his lap, tears stinging his eyes. He bit his lip sharply, and tried to hold in his feelings.

"Are you saying the Tritter business was… _all my fault?_" His voice had dropped so that it was barely audible.

Rainie paused, struggling to find a way to express herself without making Wilson feel any worse than he already did.

"No… maybe… not really. I guess what I'm saying is that you were used to him being manipulative, playing you. You were afraid he just wanted the drugs to get high. Maybe it was easier than having to admit that your friend—your dear, dear friend—was heading back into a life of excruciating pain. Yes?"

She waited until he was willing to meet her eye. His nod was so slight she might have missed it if she hadn't already been looking for it.

"I-I guess so," he finally admitted.

"And then, along came Tritter. He wasn't the first clinic patient Greg had pissed off. So it was logical to think Greg was… What's that phrase you and Lisa use? Just House being House?" She looked him directly in the eye again, and he saw what might be sympathy, or perhaps pity, cross her face before she looked down, frowning. She fidgeted a moment before saying, cautiously, "I… I don't know quite how to say this, James… but… well, that's kind of… patronizing, don't you think? Shaking your head and rolling your eyes and summing up a person in that sort of… reproachful way. Anyway, that's how I see it. I'd be… well, I'd be pretty pissed if someone I cared about referred to anything I did as 'Rainie being Rainie,' as if I were so simple that one non-descriptive phrase could explain everything about me." She gave him an apologetic smile, as if telling him that he had been condescending to his best friend was actually painful to _her_.

There was a long pause while Wilson tore his gaze away from her, processing. He stared at the floor. This was ridiculous. Why was his heart pounding? He felt as if he couldn't swallow, could barely breathe. Finally, everything settled down again, and he realized that he was feeling… _what was it?_... ashamed of himself. His glance brushed hers, and again he nodded. "You're right," he whispered. "It never dawned on me, but yes… you're right."

After a moment, she took a breath and picked up where she left off: "Back to 'House being House,'" she said. "Where was I? Oh, yes… the whole thing with the ketamine and then Tritter. You figured it was just Greg being affected by the drugs, wanting to get high. It was him being irascible, incorrigible, misanthropic… miserable. Never considering that maybe he was mercilessly afraid, that he reluctantly needed the drugs to combat the return of unbearable pain, or that he'd stood up to a bully who had mortified him, attacking him at his weakest point."

She tightened her grip on his arm, her mangled fingers struggling to grasp him. "He's a lot more sensitive than you gave him credit for," she said softly. "I don't know why he's willing to show that side to me more than he does to you. Maybe because we've shared something… something horrific. Maybe because Jacey Liu is like a bulldog, won't let him get away with crap, and I just happen to be there when she pries things out of him. I don't know. Maybe he tried to let down his guard with you, and you… maybe… said the wrong thing at the wrong time and he shut back down. But I'm sure… really sure, James… that he would have told you how he felt if he hadn't had a lifetime of protecting those tender feelings."

Wilson could hear his own heartbeat again as he fought off tears. All he'd wanted—all he'd ever wanted—was for House to open up, to deal with his pain, both physical and emotional—and it hurt him deeply to realize that perhaps his own responses to his friend might actually have caused the opposite to happen, that his own reactions to House might have made him retreat even further into his shell. That by not acknowledging the reality of House's sensitive side, by preaching and badgering and underestimating him, House might have become defensive, unwilling to admit that he'd had a good reason for reacting toward Tritter the way he had, even if that reaction was overblown.

"Oh, God!" he murmured.

Rainie smiled. "Hey—_hey_," she said, forcing him to look up again. "Don't get me wrong. Greg can be difficult and evasive. Even more so back then. He didn't make it easy for you. It wasn't just that you didn't see it. It's also that he hid it from you."

After a moment, Wilson's mind refocused and he felt a little better and remembered the point to this unexpectedly uncomfortable conversation. "But how did all of that tip you off that Tritter might pull something? Why did you and Evan do this research?"

Rainie smiled, and Wilson could see fierce intelligence in her eyes.

"Because, James dear, once a bully, always a bully. Evan and I have interviewed more than two dozen people now who ran afoul of Tritter, sometimes through incredibly minor interactions. He _always_ turned on them, _always _sought retaliation, _always _used the power of his badge to get even. It's human nature for people to assume everyone else is just like them. Because Tritter abused his power to get even with people, it would be natural for him to assume that Greg would, too—that he'd take advantage of Tritter's weakened state. If Tritter even slightly suspected that Greg wanted some kind of revenge against him for the incident eight years ago, he was going to make a preemptive strike."

Wilson nodded, suddenly seeing the big picture that Rainie had painted. "Which is what he did."

"Of course. What he doesn't seem to understand is that Greg isn't like that. And more to the point, Greg doesn't even care about Tritter. Tritter can't begin to grasp that for Greg, Michael Tritter isn't the center of the universe. He's insignificant, except as a way to keep Greg's mind occupied." She struggled to sit up straighter against the cushions of the sofa, and abruptly changed the subject. "So… Danish? Coffee?"

Rainie Adler had a stunning way of getting right to the heart of things. An emotionally numb Wilson stood up and stumbled toward the kitchen. As an afterthought, he turned back toward Rainie, who had un-muted the television. "But this research… these interviews. You never told me exactly: Why did you do it?"

Rainie looked over at him and smiled grimly. "I just like to be prepared," she said in a casual manner that he had come to learn was anything but casual. "I was taken off-guard once in my life, and it cost me…" She paused, and Wilson heard what sounded like a small hiccup. "…I-it cost me… _everything_. If I can help it, I'm never letting that happen again."

* * * *

House slept through the morning. When he finally got out of bed, the Danish was all gone, except for one half-eaten prune pastry, and there was only about a cup's worth left in the coffee pot. Grumbling, with the Danish gripped between his teeth and a coffee cup balanced on the armrest of his wheelchair, he made his way to the living room, where he settled himself next to Rainie, who had dozed off with the remote in her hand.

Before long, Wilson had brewed a new pot of coffee, baked some cinnamon buns and was fixing him scrambled eggs, with hash browns and bacon on the side.

* * * *

Back at the hospital, Michael Tritter woke up feeling especially pleased with himself. He pictured House in jail, where he belonged… where he'd always belonged. As Devi slipped into his room, he eyed her expectantly, gleefully looking for telltale signs in her demeanor that she was as pleased as he was that her boss had been arrested. After a confusing moment, he realized there were none.

Trying to be the consummate professional, Devi scanned his chart, glancing only momentarily at her patient. She pursed her lips and her brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry to say, Mr. Tritter, that we still don't know what's making you so ill. But we are narrowing the field, and hope to have an answer shortly. As soon as Dr. House comes in, we will review your case in detail and, with any luck, we will find the answer."

She hooked the chart back on the end of his bed, and turned to leave the room.

He sat up, and called after her, demanding her attention.

"Dr. Rajghatta! Come here!"

Halfway out the door, Devi paused. She was so angry with Tritter at this point, she had hoped to avoid talking to him at all, afraid that her ire would spill over the edge and she would do in life what she had done in her dream—tell him exactly what she thought. But she felt obliged to keep attempting to treat him as she would any other patient, if only because it seemed to matter so much to House. Taking a deep breath and holding it a moment before exhaling, she turned slightly, refusing to make eye contact. "What is it, Mr. Tritter?"

"Get back in here," he demanded. "I want to look you in the eye when I'm talking to you!"

He saw her shoulders tense up, and then forcibly relax as she turned a little more in his direction, still not making eye contact.

"I'd rather not," she said. "I've told you everything you need to know right now, and I don't have time for this… this whatever it is—power trip, or something."

Tritter found himself incensed. He began screaming. "Goddammit! I'm your patient. Get your ass over here!"

Devi closed her eyes a moment, and dug her fingernails into her palm to keep from yelling back. She waited a long moment before responding.

"No, Mr. Tritter. I won't 'get my ass' over there. Your illness is making you upset, and it won't do either of us any good to exchange angry words. You need to calm down, and allow me to do my job… which is to find out what's making you sick."

At that, she walked out into the hallway and slid the door closed behind her. Once she was out of sight of the room, she leaned against a wall, trembling with anger.

Inside the room, Tritter did more than tremble; he grabbed the pink plastic water pitcher on his bedside table and flung it ferociously across the room, where smacked into the glass wall, the lid popping off and water spattering everywhere.

Punching the buzzer on his bed rail, he was determined to make someone pay attention to him. When the door slid open and a nurse entered, he glowered at her.

"What is it, Mr. Tritter? Is everything all right?" After adjusting his IV, she headed back toward the door, looking at him over her shoulder.

"No, it's not all right!" he yelled. "That doctor just walked out on me! Get her back here!"

The nurse, who had been front and center when House returned to the hospital yesterday, just stared at him. He couldn't figure out why, but she seemed angry.

"I don't think you want that, Mr. Tritter. I think you want to calm down and let the doctors do their job."

Beyond frustrated, Tritter grabbed the closest thing to him, a cup of water, and flung it at her. She ducked as the water splashed a few feet from her face, and continued on toward the door.

"Get back in here!"

She turned to face him. "No, Mr. Tritter, I won't. If you feel you aren't getting the kind of treatment you want, then perhaps you need to find another doctor to treat you at a different hospital. However, I think you and I both know that Dr. House is the only one who can actually help you. So trying to interfere with him is only going to harm you in the long run."

Tritter, now red in the face with anger and completely out of control, tried to sit up, fully intending to do as she suggested. But dizziness overtook him and he abruptly dropped his head back against the pillows as the room spun around him.

The nurse, who called out into the hall for an orderly to clean up the floor, left the room in relief, glad that she hadn't said more. When she got back to the nurse's station, she picked up a notepad and recorded her conversation with the patient, as instructed by Dr. Chase.

Behind her, Tritter—frustrated and defeated—closed his eyes. For just a moment, he was able to set aside his paranoia and vengeance to think rationally. Yes, he needed help. He was sick. That's it. He was sick. Hating to admit it, even to himself, Tritter grasped the truth that House was the only one who could help. That's what everyone kept telling him. But House… House was in jail, thanks to him. There would be no help as long as that bastard was locked up. What had he done?

Trying to shake off these unwanted thoughts, Tritter felt himself falling asleep again, unable to fight off the medication that dripped constantly into his system.


	14. Chapter 14: On With the Case

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** Despite the fact that his patient had been the cause of yesterday's trauma, House was choosing to continue treating Tritter like any other patient.

* * *

**Chapter 14:**** On With the Case**

Hearing a door open, Chase looked up to see a pale and wan Greg House roll the wheelchair into his office. Immediately getting up from his seat at the conference table, Chase moved with forced nonchalance into House's office. House looked up, nodding briefly to acknowledge him.

"How's the patient?" he asked.

Chase stumbled. As far as he was concerned, House's condition and emotional wellbeing were considerably more important than those of Michael Tritter.

"_Uhhh…_," he stuttered.

House, who had insisted coming in despite Wilson's strenuous objections, was determined to avoid discussion of yesterday's catastrophe.

"Well," he began, his tone sarcastic, "_that's _a good start. Come on, Chase. Either you know or you don't. Get to the point."

Pulling himself together, Chase slipped into professional mode. "The same. He's the same, House."

"Good. That's all I need." House turned toward his computer, dismissing Chase with a curt nod.

Years earlier, Chase might have walked away from this kind of dismissal with hurt feelings, attributing House's abruptness to the prevailing wisdom that House was an ass. But now, after watching his boss fight his way back from the sharp edge of destruction, Chase recognized it for what it was: a desperate attempt to keep the demons at bay and to use his job as the method for doing so. Despite the fact that his patient had been the cause of yesterday's trauma, House was choosing to continue treating Tritter like any other patient. Smiling sadly, Chase strolled back into the conference room.

Devi was waiting expectantly, bubbling over with curiosity. "So? Why is he here? What did he say?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to know how Tritter was doing."

For Devi, who was relatively new to House's behavior, this seemed astounding. "You're kidding, right? I mean, I can't believe he's even here today, after what he's been through."

Chase sat down across the table from her. "I dunno. I guess that's his way of dealing with things."

"But…" Devi struggled to find the words. "…But how can he do this? I was sure… I mean, how can he continue to treat Tritter after yesterday?"

Chase shrugged. "I don't really get it myself, Raja," he said, "but I think he compartmentalizes things in ways I just wouldn't be able to do." _Maybe that's how he got through it_, Chase thought. _Maybe that's how he survived._

Realizing she'd gotten the only answer she was going to get, Devi returned to the journal she was scanning.

After a moment, Chase spoke.

"Hey," he said. Devi looked up. "You saw Tritter this morning, yes?"

She nodded.

"How was he? I don't mean physically. How did he act?"

"He's increasingly angry and paranoid. I don't think he knows House is back. I said something about going over the case with House when he came in, but I'm pretty sure that didn't register."

Drumming his fingers on the tabletop for a moment, Chase suddenly stood up, a sly smile on his face.

"Come on," he said as he headed for the door. "I'd really love to be the one to tell him."

Startled, Devi followed him, secretly delighted. "Chase… Chase, wait!"

Chase kept walking. Devi hurried to catch up as he strode purposefully through the lobby. She reached him just as he punched the Up button on the elevator.

"Should we be doing this?" She was torn between her strong desire to see the look on Tritter's face when Chase told him his case against House was dismissed, and the equally strong desire to avoid creating any more agitation.

Chase shook his head. "I frankly don't care," he said. "I've had it with him. The man needs to know that all he's doing is hurting himself."

Against her better judgment, Devi hopped into the elevator car and rode up with Chase. "I don't know about this. House isn't going to like it."

"What's the worst that could happen?" asked Chase. "The bastard has already tried to have House locked up, which was only going to keep us from finding the answer that much longer. He's clearly more interested in being a vindictive bastard than in being an _alive_ vindictive bastard. He should have to deal with the consequences of his actions."

In his room, Tritter woke up groggy and disoriented. As he propped himself up in bed, the door slid open, and he was startled to see Drs. Chase and Rajghatta march into his room. Chase walked over to the side of the bed, and unlike Devi earlier, looked Tritter right in the eye. Tritter couldn't figure out why, but the blond doctor looked angry. He ought to look grateful—grateful to Tritter for removing that dangerous influence.

"You are so fucking lucky that House is in charge of your case and not me," began Chase with no prelude. "Despite your little stunt yesterday, he's here doing his damndest to solve your problem. If it had been up to me, I'd have kicked your fat ass to the curb."

"W-what…?" asked Tritter, genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? House is in jail, where he belongs. You should be pleased to be away from that madman."

Chase snorted, looking down at Tritter disdainfully. "Is that what you think? You think the greatest diagnostician in the country — maybe in the world — would be better off in jail than here rescuing your sorry butt? Well, guess what? Your case was dismissed. The judge thought it was ridiculous. As for me… you think I should sing hosannas to be away from the man who not only shows me every day what it means to be a hero but also saved my life? God, you're pathetic."

Stunned, Tritter stared unbelieving at Chase. "Holy crap," he said, finally. "You really grew a pair, didn't you? And just so you could defend _him_? Is that all you've learned from him in eight years—how to be rude to patients? You're the one who's pathetic. The man is a menace."

This was too much for Devi, who had stood by silently as Chase had ranted at Tritter. Maybe something about her dream from the day before gave her the courage to talk back to the vengeful cop.

"You really don't get it, do you Mr. Tritter? Dr. House has been through enough without your bullshit on top of it. The only reason we're still working on your case is because he insisted on it—he's determined to find the answer to what's making you sick. If you feel he's a menace, go elsewhere. Personally, I'll be glad to see the last of you. Good riddance. I'll take 1,000 Gregory Houses over one Michael Tritter any day of the week."

Tritter's mind raced. He had to regain control of this situation; he couldn't leave his health in the hands of these idiots. Obviously, House had found some way to evade the system again and to con his staff. _But he can't hoodwink me_, thought Tritter. _Once an addict, always an addict. I've got to find a way to force his hand—to make sure that he quits stalling around and treats me fairly._ With that comforting thought, Tritter calmed down, reminding himself that quiet menace was always more effective than screaming and yelling. When he spoke again, it was very softly and with purpose.

"Don't think you can fool me," he whispered, looking Chase in the eye. "I know what's really going on here, and I will not allow it. Do you hear me? I'm going to make sure that son-of-a-bitch treats me fairly, if it kills me."

* * * *

For House, the day went slowly. He'd slept late, come in late, and was having trouble concentrating once he got in. _Not real. Not real. Not real_ became his mantra, repeated every few minutes, as he fought off the shakes, staving off the fear that tumbled down on him at regular intervals. _Not real_, he said to himself. _Not real not real not real not real not real_.

He was so involved with avoiding his own fears that he never heard Chase and Devi enter the room next door as they came back from Tritter's room. But after a moment, their voices filtered through his haze.

"What'd I tell you?" he heard Chase say.

In the other room, Devi didn't know what to say. Maybe she'd been so determined to treat Tritter like any other patient, she'd overlooked the danger signs Chase and Foreman had warned her about. "Yes," she said. "I get it now. He's… yes. Everything you said."

"Could that have been any scarier?" asked Chase, still processing their encounter. "The way he dropped his voice to sound more menacing?"

"Creepy, if you ask me."

In the other room, House fought with himself. _Damn Tritter anyway—always was an idiot. He's going to force this, force me to question everything I do, just so he can feel I'm out to get him._ House smiled grimly to himself. _Yeah, like _I'm _out to get _him_._

"Very creepy," agreed Chase, grimacing as he took a swig of now now-stale coffee before he headed off to a rotation in the ER. _The man is insane_._ He'd rather die than admit he was wrong about House_. He glanced through the open doorway, catching a glimpse of House shivering at his desk. _Well, at least Tritter can't do anything more_, he thought. _He's done his worst._


	15. Chapter 15: Done His Worst

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** Five minutes later, two EMTs—a man and a woman—parted the gathering crowd of neighbors and gawkers, pushing a gurney rapidly toward the blood-covered figure lying partially clothed on the sidewalk.

* * *

**Chapter 15:**** Done His Worst**

After Devi and Chase left his room, Tritter placed another call to his buddy Stan Skelton.

"You sure, Mike? Don'tcha think that's pushin' it a bit—kinda crossin' a line? I mean… well… ya never actually… ya know… broke the law… like this… before."

Even though Skelton couldn't see him do it, Tritter nodded vigorously, his eyes narrowing with anger. "You bet I want this," he said. "House needs to know he can't mess with me without me messing with him. And if that means I mess up his house…" Tritter found himself amused by his choice of words. "…then maybe he won't be so quick to mess with me again. Oh, and if you find any drugs—and I'm sure you will—confiscate `em. Once this is over, I'm picking up where I left off."

There was an odd silence on the other end of the phone.

"Uh… Mike? Do ya really want ta do that? I mean, if this guy's your only chance, don'tcha think messin' with him like this could… I dunno… make him _less_ likely to help you? It kinda seems like maybe you're overreacting here."

Tritter responded quickly and impatiently.

"Oh, quit being a sissy, Stan! I know this type. Once an addict, you know. As soon as he understands who is actually in control here, he'll hop to it."

"But you already got him arrested, and that didn't seem to change things."

"Just got to up the ante a bit, that's all. Trash his house…" Again, Tritter smiled to himself over his own little joke. "…and he'll rush to get the answer."

"But…"

"But nothin', Stan. Just take care of it." And with that, he hung up the phone, just a little more forcefully than he needed to.

* * * *

The afternoon newspaper landed with a _thwack_ and a _splat_ on the slush-covered sidewalk. Without paying much attention, Jake Simpson rode down the street on autopilot toward the next house, reaching behind him to grab a plastic-covered paper to toss. As his arm arced to throw, he froze, his bicycle skidding to a halt. The 12-year-old's eyes popped open and his mouth dropped in shock, the paper falling from his hand into an ice-covered puddle by the curb.

After his heart started beating again, Jake grabbed his cell phone and called his mother. He didn't know what else to do.

Five minutes later, two EMTs—a man and a woman—parted the gathering crowd of neighbors and gawkers, pushing a gurney rapidly toward the blood-covered figure lying partially clothed on the slushy sidewalk. A woman came running from one of the nearby houses carrying a blanket, too late to provide any warmth or modesty, as two police cars, sirens blaring, pulled up to the curb.

Half an hour later, the doors to the PPTH Emergency Room slid open and the gurney barreled through, rapidly wheeling the unconscious figure into an ER examining room.

"Hypothermia," called out Jonelle Williams, one of the emergency medical technicians, while Sam Ngoya, her partner, followed it up with, "Beaten, possible rape." Two police officers hung back at a respectful distance.

"No name?" asked the doctor on duty, frowning at the intake form, his back to the patient on the gurney.

"Jane Doe," said Sam Ngoya. "Paperboy found her bleeding into the snow on the sidewalk… neighbors didn't recognize her."

"No ID…? Oh, I guess not," said the doctor, as his gaze went to the next line, describing how the victim had been dressed… or rather undressed… in a torn and bloody white linen nightgown hiked up around her waist. For the first time, he turned to look down at the shivering, unconscious figure behind him.

Jonelle Wiliams saw the doctor pale, swaying a moment as if he might lose his balance. She took a step forward, thinking she might have to catch him when he fainted. _Newbie_, she thought.

The blond doctor grabbed onto the gurney to steady himself, murmuring, "Fucking hell!" under his breath. He grabbed his pager and punched something into it before turning quickly and calling loudly for a nurse.

"Cuddy," he said over his shoulder when he heard the nurse's footsteps. "Get Cuddy. And Dr. Wilson." He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, puffing out his cheeks. Closing his eyes a moment, he then opened them and added, "And Dr. House. Now. Get them _now_! And I need two nurses. Stat! Prep the OR."

Stepping back into the waiting room, Jonelle felt a _whoosh_ as a petite, dark-haired figure in ridiculously high heels, a tight skirt and low-cut blouse swept right past her. You couldn't be an EMT in Princeton without running into—or afoul of—Lisa Cuddy. _Pretty serious_, thought Jonelle,_ to bring someone like her on the run._ Dr. Wilson's name was unfamiliar to her, but everyone knew who Dr. House was. Glancing around quickly, Jonelle failed to see anyone who matched his description.

"Oh, God!"

Jonelle whipped her head back around, trying to locate the female voice in distress. Just as she'd realized the sound came from the exam room, a distraught Lisa Cuddy flew back through the ER waiting room, brushing past Jonelle as she ran out into the main lobby. Instinctively, Jonelle headed in that direction, tugging on Sam's sleeve to get him to follow her. Scanning the room, the dean honed in on a baby-faced doctor in a white lab coat emerging from the elevator.

"James," she said, running toward him. She sounded upset.

"What? Lisa, what is it?" the brown-haired man asked, clearly concerned.

"House. Where's House?" Again Jonelle scanned the room. From the opposite side of the lobby, Jonelle spied a man in a wheelchair, a man who could be no one else but Gregory House. Suddenly, her brain put the pieces together. The other torture victim—the woman—the journalist—what was her name? Now that she saw Dr. House up close—and he was getting closer by the second—she recognized the similarities to the woman found on the sidewalk. Only two people who had been through what they had could have such similar and distinctive markings. House and the other two rushed to meet each other in the center of the lobby.

"Over here," said Cuddy, gesturing toward a nearby bench against one of the lobby walls. Seating herself, she looked up and pointed at Jonelle and Sam. "You. Come here. And get those two cops, too."

At the word "cops," House became noticeably alarmed, and Jonelle began mentally cataloging her medical kit, just in case she needed some Ativan for a panic attack.

Suddenly seeming to realize what concerned him, Cuddy turned to House and spoke softly. "No, House, no," said Cuddy. "I won't let them near you." She looked up at the two uniformed men. "You'll stay on the other side of the lobby, won't you, gentlemen?"

The cops frowned, confused, and stayed put, but Jonelle got it. _He doesn't do well with cops. Who could blame him?_ She grabbed handfuls of shirt and literally dragged the two six-footers across the lobby. When her back was completely turned on Cuddy and the two doctors, she leaned in and whispered to the cops: "Hey, she's the boss… she knows what she's doing. She'll call if she needs you. Stay over here, okay?" Still confused, the two rolled their eyes and muttered something derogatory about women and fucking retards.

Jonelle rejoined Sam and the others in time to hear Cuddy say, "House… I-it's… it's… _Rainie_," and to see her tentatively reach out toward House, her hand hovering over his arm without actually touching it. "It's Rainie," she said again. A gasp came from Dr. Wilson to her left, and Jonelle saw the blood drain from House's face. "I-I don't know… Chase is with her. The EMTs… we can ask the EMTs."

"Everything," whispered House, clenching his jaw in an obvious attempt to control his nerves. "I want to know everything."

Jonelle glanced quickly at Sam, and then took the lead. Sam was a great partner, but not so good at dealing with people. "Got a call that there was a Jane Doe unconscious in the snow. When we got there, we found her on the sidewalk."

Suddenly, she felt uncertain. If these doctors were the woman's friends, how much should she say and how blunt should she be? Noticing her hesitation, the doctor named Wilson urged her on.

"It's okay," he said gently, his face settling into sympathetic folds. "We'd rather know everything… even if it's… unpleasant."

She smiled grimly, appreciating the encouragement. Not everyone wanted the truth in these kinds of situations.

"Someone's done a real number on her," she said. "She's been beaten, badly—very badly—and given the… blood stains and the state of her garments… probably raped." Out of the corner of her eye, Jonelle saw the frail doctor in the wheelchair flinch dramatically. Taking a short pause to give them a chance to absorb the news, she continued. "Because of the hypothermia and her other injuries, we didn't have time to give her much of an examination—we just stabilized her as much as we could before we got here."

For a moment, the room was silent.

"Where did you find her?" asked House, who looked increasingly unwell. "I mean, what was the address?" When she supplied it, he looked even worse, and the nice-looking Dr. Wilson paled, casting a haggard appearance over his pleasant features.

"Is it okay if I bring over one of the police officers, House?" asked Cuddy. "To answer a few questions? It's up to you."

After a moment, he nodded grimly. Jonelle didn't think he could look any more unsteady, but she was wrong. The closer the cop got to them, the more she thought she might need that Ativan.

Officer Bazell, whom Jonelle recognized from around town, spoke up when Cuddy asked him what he'd seen. His thick Jersey accent made him sound like a movie gangster. "Well, da front door looked like it had been broke. Da two officers who remained at da scene have reported dat d' interior of da home sustained considerable damage. We left a guy on guard `ntil a new door can be installed."

"We found her a few feet from the front door," interjected Jonelle, looking in the general direction of the doctors before her, not sure which of the three she should address. "Her head was pointed toward the street, and her feet toward the house… It looked like… she'd been trying to escape and either fell or was pushed onto her back. I'm not sure if any of the neighbors moved her or not. They didn't seem to know who she was." It was always an unfortunate possibility that well-meaning civilians would tamper with a crime scene or risk further injury to a patient by moving the body.

The fragile-looking man in the wheelchair looked away from them for a moment, his startling blue eyes seeming to fill with tears. She could see the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to get his feelings under control. Finally, the younger doctor, Wilson, gently laid his hand on House's back and whispered something in his ear.

The older man nodded. "What kinds of injuries did you find?" he asked after a moment, his voice raspy and weak. "Abrasions? Contusions? What?"

Grateful to be able to talk strictly about the medical aspects of the case, she went on.

"She was bleeding from several noticeable wounds—scalp, left leg, right shoulder—and suffered contusions and scrapes over much of her body, including severe bruising on her face and upper body. We put her on a ventilator right away, as she was having trouble breathing, possibly because of the hypothermia. We covered her in warming blankets and started an IV of warm fluids."

All of a sudden, Cuddy's cell phone went off, startling them all. "Cuddy. Yes? Okay, thanks. I'll let them know." She looked at House first, then Wilson and finally the rest of them. "Chase just took her into the OR. Brenda Previn says he's concerned about internal bleeding. He's also setting a broken femur, and some small fractures in several of her fingers. Apparently he thinks she's got a couple of broken ribs, too."

She looked toward Officer Bazell. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"Uh… Lemme check in," he said. Flipping open his cell, he punched in a number. "Bazell here. Anyt'ing new…? …Uh-huh? …Uh-huh. Okay, t'anks." He flipped it shut. "Okay, here's what we got: So half of da place belongs to a James Wilson and d' udder half to a Gregory House."

"That would be us," said Wilson, trying to keep his voice even. House seemed to shrink into his wheelchair. Jonelle saw Wilson gently lay his fingers against House's neck, searching for his carotid among the disturbing layers of scars, checking for a pulse, clearly concerned. He seemed unsatisfied. Nonchalantly, he dropped his hand on the other doctor's shoulder and left it there, almost as if it would provide House with some sense of security.

After waiting a moment for them to react, Bazell continued. "Apparently, dere was a lot of damage to d' interior of da left side of dat duplex. D'ere'd been a struggle. We're checkin' for prints and DNA evidence right now. We'll keep ya posted, and we'll let ya know when you can go back in for your t'ings."

_Damn_, thought Jonelle. _Pretty crappy for them. Lady friend beaten and raped, and now their home has been trashed, too. Bad enough for regular folks, but for this guy, after everything he's been through. Sucks._ She found herself riveted to House's form in the wheelchair. _Hope he'll be okay… Good thing he's in a hospital._

Going through the motions of civility, Cuddy stood unsteadily and smiled, reaching out to shake hands with Jonelle.

"Thank you very much for taking the time to do this," she said. "As you can tell, this is upsetting news, but I appreciate your keeping us informed."

"Not exactly our pleasure," said Jonelle graciously, "but I'm glad if this was helpful." Talking to loved ones was often the hardest part of the job.

Wilson stood up, too, extending his hand to Officer Bazell. "If you find out anything more, especially who did this and if you've caught them, could you call us here?" He reached into his breast pocket for his business cards, handing them out. House just sat, turned away from the rest of the group, staring vacantly.

"Yes. Of course," said Jonelle, as they took their leave, gathering up the other officer and leaving through the ER entrance to the hospital.

* * * *

Three hours later, a weary Chase stood next to Rainie Adler's gurney in the recovery room as she began to wake up. A couple of the nurses looked at him oddly; generally, doctors considered their work to be done the moment surgery was complete. He saw Rainie's eyelids flutter lightly as she fought against the effects of the anesthetic. Very gently, Chase took her bandaged hand and leaned over into her line of sight.

"Hi," he said softly. "Welcome back." Her eyes stared vacantly, showing no recognition, before her brow furrowed in pain.

"_Mmmnnn_," she moaned through purple-swollen lips. "_Nnngh_."

"That's all right," said Chase, softly stroking her hand. "You don't have to talk. Just stay still. You're safe now."

Rainie closed her eyes again, giving in to the pull of the drugs.

Down the hall in the Diagnostics conference room, Wilson and Cuddy sat with House, who had grown increasingly tense as they waited for news from the O.R. Devi and Foreman sat quietly, pretending to search through journals. Foreman felt acutely uncomfortable having Cuddy and Wilson find him there, when they both knew he wasn't even supposed to be in the building when House was. When they first entered the room bearing the bad news, he stood to leave.

"Sit," House had said, scooting up to the table.

_He looks old_, thought Cuddy, for the first time wondering how much more trauma House could handle in his life. Gradually, she noticed Foreman. _What's he doing here?_ she wondered, and then pushed the thought away. Suddenly, Foreman's outburst of a couple days ago seemed insignificant in light of what they were facing now. If House was okay with Foreman being here, she decided she could let it pass.

Wilson, the last to sit, had commandeered House's desk chair from the office next door and rolled it up to the table near House, as if trying to provide comfort by proximity. He seemed to have forgotten all about Foreman's banishment.

"I'm sure she'll be all right," said Cuddy, attempting to be comforting.

"You don't know that," replied House brusquely, getting agitated. "She should be out by now. Why haven't we heard anything?"

All of a sudden, Devi, who couldn't take it anymore, spoke up. "It's Tritter, isn't it?" she asked abruptly. She looked around the table at the stunned faces staring back at her. "Well, isn't it? The last time I was in there, just this morning, he said… he said…" Suddenly, she grabbed a file and began rifling through it, finally locating the page she was looking for. "He said… 'Don't think you can fool me. I know what's really going on here, and I will not allow it. Do you hear me? I'm going to make sure that son-of-a-bitch treats me fairly, if it kills me.'"

The room grew uncomfortably silent. She was the only one who dared to say aloud what all of them were thinking—that somehow in his deteriorating mental state, Tritter had convinced himself that the only way to get that fair treatment was to exert his power over House's life, even if that meant endangering the life of House's other patient.

After inhaling a shaky breath, Foreman ventured a comment. "Would even Tritter do something like this?"

Everyone in the room looked at him, as if waiting for him to continue. He hadn't intended to answer his own question, but no one else seemed inclined to do so.

"All I mean is that he seems to use the law as a billy club, but this is so blatantly illegal…"

He didn't know where to go from there, so he just stopped talking and let it hang.

"Find out who he's been calling," mumbled House without raising his eyes. "Check the phone logs. If you have to wait till he's asleep, and get your hands on his cell phone."

Devi and Foreman stood, ready to do as House asked.

"No," said Cuddy, intervening firmly. "I'm not going to allow you to do anything that potentially breaks the law—he's just waiting for you to do something like that. The hospital phone records, yes. Cell phone, no."

After a moment, House nodded regretfully. "What she said."

Once Devi and Foreman had left the room to check on the phone records, she continued. "If he's behind this terrible thing, we'll get to the bottom of it. But I'm not going to let you put yourself at risk. We don't know if we can trust anyone on the police force, so I'm calling Joe Roberts at the FBI… we'll let him investigate. Okay?" As she said "okay," her voice dropped and she met House's eyes.

Again he nodded wearily.

"I-I…" he began, not really knowing what he wanted to say. All he knew was that he was suddenly desperately tired and wanted to lie down.

Just then, the office phone rang. Wilson jumped up and ran into House's office to answer it.

"Hello? Uh-huh. Yes, good. I'll let them know." He hung up. As he came back into the conference room, he said, "That was Chase. She's out of surgery, in recovery and she's opened her eyes." He sat down again in House's office chair. "That's good news. Maybe we should head on down there." He focused his attention on House. "You up to it?"

What House thought was, _No_. _Need to lie down. Now. Need a drink. Need three more Dilaudid than I actually ought to have. Need to close my eyes and pretend this hasn't happened._

What he said was, "Sure. Let's go."

Passive in his exhaustion, he allowed Wilson to wheel him out of the room and down the hall, Cuddy following along, speaking platitudes to the point that House wished she'd just shut up. Until he saw Rainie for himself, he didn't need to hear all that bullshit doctors say when they don't actually know what's going on. Mostly, he berated himself. _Should have had better security. Should never have left her alone. Should have made sure Linda stayed there all the time. Should have seen this coming. It's my fault… my fault… my fault._

By the time they reached the recovery room at the other side of the building, Rainie's eyes were fluttering open again, and she had been transferred to a hospital bed, her upper body propped up at a 45-degree angle. Chase stood by the foot of the bed making notations on her chart.

Taking control of the chair from Wilson, House grabbed the wheels and rolled close to the bed, trying to make eye contact with Rainie for the last few inches. She seemed to look right through him.

"Hey," he whispered, reaching out and lightly touching her bandaged right hand.

"_H-h… mmnnnnn_," she replied, wincing as the bruising on her swollen lips twinged with pain.

"It's okay… it'll be okay," he said, providing her with the same kind of platitudes he'd wanted to strangle Wilson and Cuddy for just moments earlier. "Do you know where you are?"

Still seeming disconnected from her surroundings, Rainie only stared blankly.

He tried again, asking the same question and getting right into her line of sight. Her head trembled slightly, and she avoided his gaze.

"Come on, Rainie," he tried. "I know… _I know_…it feels safer to stay inside your own mind. Believe me, I know. But we need you here." Gently, he laid his hand on her arm. Her eyelids flickered, and then finally she met his gaze for a fraction of a second before looking away again. "That's good," he said. "Now, look around the room. Do you know where you are?"

First she examined the ceiling, and then, using only her eyes, the walls around her. Slowly and carefully, she nodded, as if unsure about the stability of her neck.

"Where?" he asked again, soliciting a verbal response.

She looked down, seeming to examine the blanket laid gently over her legs. "H-hospital?" she said, with an upward inflection on the final syllable, turning it into a question.

House nodded. "You're at PPTH. Among friends. _Safe_." He emphasized the last word, thinking about what reassurances he might want if it had been him instead of her attacked in their home.

"S-s-safe?" she asked.

He nodded again, gently laying his hand on her arm, reminiscent of the way he comforted her—much to his… and everyone else's surprise—when she was first brought to the hospital after her release from prison. "Do you remember what happened?" More than anything, he didn't want to ask this question, and even more than that, he didn't want to hear the answer.

"Y-yes," came the gradual reply, along with another slight nod. Her eyes focused inward and she stared again for a moment, unseeing, before refocusing on him.

_Fuck_, he thought, sick at heart. _Well, at least she can talk._

Her devastated hazel eyes met his blue ones. His voice dropped lower, so that even Wilson and Cuddy, who stood close by, couldn't hear him.

"Do you know who did this to you?"

She paused, searching his face for something, then weakly gripped his hand, wincing as her bandaged fingers touched him, sending a jolt of pain up her arm.

"F-four," she whispered hoarsely. "Four… men." Just the effort of speaking seemed to wear her out.

"That's enough for now," said House, as much because he didn't want to hear any more as because she wasn't up to speaking. "Let us know when you think you can talk to the police."

She nodded. Then she closed her eyes again and was out.

Until Chase spoke up, House had almost forgotten he was there. "We're about to move her to a room. I arranged for a second bed—for you, House, if you want to use it. Thought you might want to stay with her."

House nodded in relief. _Good. Need to lie down._

As the orderlies rolled Rainie's bed out of the recovery area, Chase came over to House. Instinctively, Wilson and Cuddy inched closer to House's wheelchair, as if to protect him.

"How does it look?" asked Cuddy. "Any permanent damage?"

Chase shrugged. "Don't know yet, but the fact that she woke up and spoke is a very good sign. If it's all right, I'd like Foreman to examine her later… to check for neurological damage. She's had several nasty blows to the head."

"Of course," replied Cuddy. She started to leave, but Chase put his hand on her shoulder, restraining her.

"There's one other thing," he said, not really looking at any of the others. "She has definitely been raped—repeatedly, by the looks of things. We found both vaginal and anal tearing—pretty severe tearing—so we've already taken semen samples and sent them to the lab for DNA testing. We're following standard rape case procedure… took photos of her injuries for possible criminal trial."

"Of course," said Cuddy again, on autopilot. She had so hoped not to hear that particular bit of news.

Chase looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight back and forth on his legs before speaking again. "It's Tritter, isn't it? He's behind this." _Oh, fuck_, he thought. _This is my fault. If I hadn't insisted on telling off Tritter, the bastard might have left well enough alone._ He felt sick.

Wilson answered this time. "We don't know. Maybe."

Throughout the exchange, House sat quietly, looking down at the floor. Every so often, Wilson would reach down and touch House's carotid to check his pulse. Still racing.

_Goddamn fuck it all to hell_, thought Wilson.


	16. Chapter 16: Retribution

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** He felt rage flush his face, and when he looked down at his hands, he saw them tremble. He tried to clench his fists to regain control over the shakes, but couldn't seem to do it. How could he have allowed things to plunge down this ravine?

**Chapter 16:**** Retribution**

The room was dark when House woke up, disoriented at first, wondering why he wasn't in his own bed, safe in his own home. Slowly, as if becoming aware it wasn't a dream, he remembered that his home was no longer safe. He heard the regular beep of the heart monitor next to him. Looking to his left as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a dark purple face exhaling soft moans of pain, and felt heartsick.

He couldn't get back to sleep, and wouldn't want to, even if he could. Everything he'd attempted to do right was turning out all wrong. He'd tried to treat Tritter as he would any other patient, and this—_this_—was the result. Once again, he'd underestimated the vindictiveness of this particular bully. And yet, it made no sense. Tritter couldn't have known that Rainie lived with him, and he had no reason to send someone to attack her. Something didn't make sense here, but his mind was so overwhelmed by emotion and exhaustion, he couldn't figure out what it was.

Didn't really matter, though, because for the first time since learning that Tritter was his patient, House was angry. In fact, to say that he was infuriated was a gross understatement. He felt rage flush his face, and when he looked down at his hands, he saw them tremble. He tried to clench his fists to regain control over the shakes, but couldn't seem to do it. How could he have allowed things to plunge down this ravine?

Suddenly, as he stared at the ceiling, he remembered Rainie's friend Evan. He'd need to be told, would want to be here. What time was it, anyway? It was still too dark to see his watch, and the clock on the bedside table was turned away from him. Whatever time it was, if it was dark then it was obviously too early to call.

The door opened abruptly, and a nurse walked in, flipping the light switch, bathing the room in harsh fluorescent light, and striding to Rainie's bed. Flinching, House curbed himself before giving into the desire to yell out in fear. _Checking vitals_, House thought. _Just checking vitals_. The nurse seemed surprised to see him there. Their eyes met for just a moment as she reacted to the terror on his face. Seeming to understand that she had frightened him, she quietly went about her business, then turned off the light and returned the room to darkness.

Once he settled down again in the darkness, he found that he wanted to hit something—hit _someone_, he realized. His rage grew until it frightened him. He was relatively okay with Tritter trying to foist his paranoia on him and him alone, but when he took it out on Rainie, who had already been through so much… something inside House grew tight. Clenching his teeth to keep from growling out his frustration, House closed his eyes, trying to practice the deep-breathing techniques he'd been taught to manage his pain and his emotions. But relaxation never came; all he felt was his heart pounding as he breathed in and out a little too rapidly and a little too shallowly.

When Wilson entered the room at 7:30 in the morning, he found House awake, his haunted eyes staring vacantly at nothing in particular.

"How is she?" asked Wilson, noting that Rainie was asleep.

House jumped at the sound of Wilson's voice. Shaking off his reverie, he spoke slowly and in a dull monotone. "Don't know yet. She's still out."

"Had breakfast?"

"Nope. Figured I'd wait for you." Something slightly less than a glimmer of a smile crossed House's face before it settled back into a deadpan expression.

"Let's do it, then, before she wakes up."

House glanced toward Rainie's bed, clearly debating whether or not to leave, even for a little while. Deciding her condition would remain the same for the time being, he nodded curtly, eased himself out of the bed and into his wheelchair, and rolled himself to the door. "Make it quick," he said, feeling no desire to eat, but knowing that staying in the room with nothing else to focus on was merely adding to his agitation.

Sure enough, when they got back, Rainie was still asleep. House grabbed her chart from the end of her bed, reading it carefully before returning it.

"I stopped by the house this morning," volunteered Wilson, who hadn't wanted to mention it during breakfast, concerned that House might not eat anything if he knew just how devastating the damage was.

House looked up at him sharply. "How bad?" he asked. His eyes narrowed and he braced himself.

Wilson looked down, trying to decide if he was really willing to deliver the news. "Pretty bad," he answered without elaboration. "They let me through the police tape for just a minute, and I ran in and grabbed a couple changes of clothes for both of you. They're in my office."

In lieu of a thank-you, House met Wilson's eyes, half nodding and half blinking to express his appreciation.

"My place is untouched," Wilson added, almost apologetically.

House looked away, breathing in and out a few times before asking, "Did you sleep there?" All he felt right now, other than the physical pain that never left, was emotional numbness. But somehow the idea of Wilson sleeping in his pristine half of the duplex while theirs was ruined seemed cruel and unfair.

"No. In my office." Wilson couldn't help wondering if House or Rainie would ever go back to the duplex, now that it was the scene of a horror like this. It seemed a shame, after they'd spent so much time, energy and money fixing it up. But he would certainly understand if they couldn't bear the thought of being there now, if it was no longer their sanctuary. Not only was the place nearly demolished—furniture overturned, artwork ruined, piano scratched, walls marred, clothes torn and stained—but in several places, Wilson had been sickened to see blood—undoubtedly Rainie's—splattering the floor, walls and upended furniture. Insurance would cover the physical damage, but nothing would repair those memories.

"I need a shower." House's voice was clipped and urgent.

If anyone else said this, Wilson would leave them in private. But House, still recuperating from the latest leg surgery, was unable to shower by himself except at home… _home?_... which had special bars and a shower seat to enable him and Rainie to manage by themselves.

"Here or staff showers?" Wilson asked, knowing the answer but wanting to give House the semblance of choice. As self-conscious as House had once been about allowing anyone to see his leg, that was now multiplied when it came to allowing anyone to see his damaged body.

"Here." House probably couldn't admit it, even to himself, but he wanted the steaming water to wash away the way he felt—grimy… contaminated… tainted. As Wilson helped him strip down, House's thoughts refused to stay away from Rainie's battered form in the hospital bed just outside the bathroom, or the images of the home that no longer felt safe, or worst of all, the knowledge that Rainie had been ruthlessly violated. He felt pressure on his chest and a bitter taste in the back of his throat as rage flooded back in on him.

Almost as soon as House was under the stream of hot water, he began to vomit, rapidly losing the poached eggs and toast he'd just eaten. Without comment, Wilson rinsed him down and offered more soap.

Half an hour later, House's body felt clean again; he was dressed in jeans, t-shirt and long-sleeved button-down shirt, which covered much of the damage to his still-thin frame. As the two exited the small bathroom in the corner of the hospital room, Rainie began to stir. By the time her eyes were completely open, House had placed himself in her line of sight.

The first thing she saw when she woke up was a pair of blue eyes, safe blue eyes. The second thing was James Wilson, leaning over House's shoulder. Even as drugged as she was, she knew they meant to provide her with some sense of security and comfort. But it was going to take more than these two hovering nearby for her to feel secure again. Until yesterday, she'd begun to feel safe in her own home… up till the moment when she heard wood splintering.

Half an hour later, Evan arrived, pale and shaking with rage. His briefcase was fat with folders as he readied himself to do battle with Michael Tritter.

Less than an hour after that, FBI agent Joe Roberts, the only law enforcement officer they trusted, stood at the foot of Rainie's bed, recorder in hand, ready to take her statement. House stayed on one side of her bed, a little distant but within her line of sight. Wilson sat by her side, gingerly holding a bandaged hand. Evan stood by her head, gently smoothing her hair with his hand.

"Tell us what you remember…"

_It wasn't unusual for her to sleep in, but it had been a particularly rough night, insomnia compounded by the pain-inducing change in the weather that brought on wet, slushy snow. Real sleep, once it finally came, had accompanied the dawn, but had only lasted an hour or so. Her sleeping mind kept imagining House in jail, terrified and alone._

_Once she'd had breakfast with House and Wilson, she went back to bed, curling up warm under layers of soft covers. She was alone; Linda McAllister and the other medical aides no longer spent much time at the duplex anymore, as both House and Rainie had become independent enough to take care of themselves._

_Rainie stayed in bed until long after House left for work. The day before, once she and Evan had finally finished up their research on Michael Tritter, she felt ready to get back to work on her book. Her eyes grazed the ceiling of her room, and she felt something close to contentment._

_Interrupting her contemplations, a tapping sound disturbed her: a pounding, louder than a knock, at the front door. Her heart jumped erratically, but she calmed herself down. Probably neighborhood kids thinking they're being cute, she thought. Moments later, a second noise bruised her ears, something harsher and sharper, as if someone was chopping down a tree outside. But this sounded closer than any tree._

_Suddenly realizing that someone was actually breaking in, Rainie gasped and slid out of her bed and onto the floor, landing with a painful _thud_. As the four men got through the door into the living room, Rainie crawled to the farthest corner of the duplex—House's bedroom. Grabbing a few shirts off the hangers, she hid herself in the closet under a pile of clothes, trying not to breathe._

_The next thing she heard was the sound of glass breaking, and she knew that her precious collection of art glass was being destroyed. The threat of tears stung her eyes._

_The four men worked their way methodically through the place, from living room to dining room to kitchen to bath, and then eventually down the hall toward the two bedrooms, demolishing nearly everything in their path. Rainie kept herself as still as she could, praying to a God she didn't believe in that they wouldn't find her._

_Cell phone. If she'd just thought to grab it, she could have called for help before they got to House's bedroom. But it was still in her room, further up the hall, and she was far too terrified to creep back in to get it. No, better that she should stay right here and hope._

_Barely breathing, she froze in her hiding place. If she could just wait it out until they left House's bedroom, she'd be all right. One of them opened the closet door; she felt a gust of fresh air as the door swung open and someone entered. Then she breathed again as the footsteps went away and the door shut, while she heard the voices—still close, but not right on top of her. _

_Drawers were opened amidst more laughter. Something crashed, and she jumped at the sound, biting down hard on the webbing between her thumb and forefinger to keep from squealing out her terror. Another crash, and then another as lamps, clocks, drawers, framed artwork and pieces of furniture were thrown to the floor. _

"_This'll do the trick," said one of the voices, the deepest of the four, pleased with himself, sounding muffled through the closet door and the pile of shirts. "Tritter'll like this. The guy will have nothing left when we're done. Oughtta put the fear of God into him."_

_Tritter just wants to scare Greg, she tried to convince herself. If they find me, they won't harm me—I'm not what they after._

_All of a sudden, she thought of her notes. All her files on Tritter had been out in plain sight. For a moment, she panicked, thinking her evidence would incite them. Then she realized they'd already been through her room, and she'd heard nothing from them about it. Even if they destroyed her notes and her laptop, Evan had copies of everything, plus the original interview recordings. Thank God, she'd also backed up the notes and drafts of her book on a disc she had just given Evan for his input._

_At last they seemed to have run their course. Leave, she thought, trying to will her desire into their minds. Just leave now._

_For one liberating moment, she thought it would turn out all right. "Let's get out of here," said a tenor voice. "We messed it up—that's all he wanted." But then, everything went very, very wrong. "One last look," said the baritone. The closet door was yanked open again; footsteps came closer… and closer… and closer… _

That's what she thought, as she relived yesterday's terror. What she actually said was… nothing. She just stared unblinking into space, her mouth partially open as she gasped for air. After a very long five minutes, Joe Roberts, who was accustomed to taking statements from traumatized victims, gently spoke her name. Then again. And again. Finally, her unseeing gaze drifted toward his face, and eventually it latched onto him.

"Rainie," he said. "Can you tell us anything about what happened?"

She continued to stare at him, as if their eye contact was her lifeline.

"Tell us about the men. How many were there?"

She made an effort. "F-four."

In the gentle voice one uses to soothe almost asleep babies, the elderly and those who are dying, Roberts continued to prod. "Caucasian?"

Sighing, as if resigning herself to divulging the information, she said, "T-three. One was L-Latino." Next to her, Wilson let out the breath he'd been holding. Carefully, trying not to cause pain to her broken fingers, he squeezed her hand reassuringly, feeling the shivers that coursed through her. Looking across to the other side of the bed, he saw House looking away, toward the wall on his left, something desperate and anguished in his eyes.

Then, her first coherent, unprompted thought, addressed, unexpectedly, to Wilson: "Caught me off-guard," she said in a shaky voice, her head tilted in his direction, her eyes flickering toward his but not quite meeting his gaze. "Guess I wasn't as prepared as… as I thought I was." Their conversation from that morning—_was it just that morning?—_flooded into his mind, and he gritted his teeth, closing his eyes, sadness overwhelming him. _"I just like to be prepared,_ she had said_. I was taken off-guard once in my life, and it cost me…I-it cost me… everything. If I can help it, I'm never letting that happen again."_ Rainie looked over at him and smiled grimly.

Then she latched back on to Joe Roberts, staring intently at him and exhaling slowly, as if she'd been holding her breath for a very long time.

House turned sharply toward Wilson, confusion etched into his features. _What?_ he mouthed. _What does that mean?_

_I'll tell you later,_ mouthed Wilson back.

House shook his head. He wanted to know _now_.

Wilson pursed his lips and gently turned his head from side to side. _Later_, he reiterated.

"How old?" Wilson twitched when Joe Roberts' voice cut through the stillness of the room.

"T-twenties. Early twenties." Apparently, Rainie's confession to Wilson was a momentary exertion; now, she seemed exactly as she had before she'd spoken to him, barely able to produce the answers to Roberts' questions.

"How tall?"

"I h-hid… in the c-closet."

The _non sequitur_ put a sudden cramp into House's stomach. Unexpectedly, against his will and his desire, he could see it from her vantage point. Hearing people break into their home, she scurried to the only reasonably safe place, hiding fearfully with breath held, waiting in a makeshift sanctuary and praying that all would be well. Like Wilson, he shut his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth, unaware that he had grabbed onto Rainie's bruised arm, causing her to wince.

"I w-was… on the f-floor."

They continued like this, with Roberts eliciting one- or two-word responses—occasionally a phrase—until Rainie was almost too exhausted to continue. Sometimes she answered the questions as asked; at other times, her mind jumped elsewhere, causing her to verbalize answers to questions that hadn't been asked. "M-my glass," she murmured out of the blue at one point. "Th-they broke my glass," leaving Roberts to guess at the context. House knew what she meant, though—her carefully hand-picked collection of Venetian art glass, which—although he'd never admitted it—gave him pleasure whenever he opened the front door and saw it illuminated on glass display shelves. Probably all smashed. No art glass, no glass shelves, no lights. Just slivers coating the wooden floor.

_Home_. He couldn't think about it… and he couldn't stop thinking about it. His emotions rose from his chest into his throat, and the only way he could breathe was by consciously choosing to do so. _Our piano_. What had they done to the Bechstein? A scratch in the finish was fixable. Ripping the keys out, turning it over, cutting the strings, breaking the legs, smashing it… he could almost feel it, in the same way he re-experienced the excruciating pain from his torture during a flashback. _Not the piano. Please, not the piano_.

His eyes glazed over and his jaw went slack. For once, Wilson didn't notice, concerned as he was with Rainie, lying on the bed in her own private hell.

Just as he began to slip into a flashback, House caught himself on the brink. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he exhaled through his mouth and forced his attention back into the room. As ugly as the terrors the room held, they were preferable to the ones in his mind.

"…loud crashes," Rainie was saying. "Lamps. Dishes. Television. All around me. Crashes."

One of the longest speeches she made was, "I heard footsteps as they came into the room," not so much to Joe Roberts or Evan or House or Wilson as to the air in the room and a corner of ceiling. "They were… laughing… _laughing_… about destroying our home."

By the time she got this far, Rainie was shaking violently. As she told them about the closet door opening, she tried to give House warning, but too suddenly turned her head and vomited forcefully into his lap.

After a moment, embarrassed, she dropped her head, muttering "S-sorry…sorry…" under her breath.

If any other patient had just thrown up all over him, House would have bitched about it. But vomit seemed to be the word of the day. For Rainie, House bit his tongue as he reached for the damp towel Wilson had jumped up to retrieve for him.

"Think you can go on?" asked Roberts, tenderly, after a moment. He'd known the two of them since they were discovered in prison, and was one of their staunchest supporters. He had watched as two shattered souls slowly put themselves back together again, bonding closely with them in the process, so what had just happened to Rainie sickened him. He wondered how House was taking it. Every so often, his gaze drifted toward the man on Rainie's right, disturbed to see his condition deteriorating by the minute.

After washing her face and rinsing her mouth with cold water, spitting into the emesis basin, which was now close at hand, Rainie tried to continue. Slowly, she told them how she'd been discovered cowering in the closet, and how the four young men—high on adrenalin and who knows what else—decided that "playing" with her was at least as much fun as demolishing the home she shared with House. Somehow, after an hour or so she'd be glad never to remember—after fighting them off the best that she could—and losing that fight—she'd managed to stumble to the front door and then out into the snow. The last thing she recalled was one of them—the baritone—shoving her backward.

It took the battered woman nearly three hours to slowly and painfully divulge much of what had happened to her. She was drained physically and shattered emotionally. But she was also stubborn.

It was a damning and terrifying account, dredged up in pieces, in almost clinical detail by a world-class journalist. Once she was finished, the room grew eerily quiet. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, House—who had turned a darkening shade of green during her narration—lifted his head and spoke to no one in particular.

"I can't do this," he said tersely, grasping the wheels of his chair. He whisked himself out of the room.

Wilson took a few steps to follow him, then looked back at Rainie, torn.

Rainie, who was barely holding herself together as it was, now seemed on the verge of a total breakdown. Tears sprang to her eyes at House's abrupt words.

Evan cautiously put his arm around her shoulder, mouthing, _Go to him,_ to Wilson, who quietly slipped out of the room.

"Hey, punkin," said Evan protectively, "you know he's no good at this kind of thing. Don't take it personally. It's actually kind of amazing he stuck it out as long as he did."

"Yeah," she said, looking stunned, and not in a good way. "Amazing."

* * * *

Once outside Rainie's room, House headed straight toward the nearest bathroom, where he flung open the door and rolled himself in, followed closely by Wilson, who narrowly avoided getting smacked in the face by the swinging door. Since vomit was, after all, the word of the day, Wilson wasn't too surprised when House threw up yet again, this time heaving into the closest sink.

After a moment, when House finished heaving, Wilson quietly handed him a damp paper towel for his face.

"Better?" asked Wilson, knowing that House wasn't.

House said nothing. His face pale and his eyes red, he just stared at the floor, as Wilson watched his chest fall and rise. Then, without warning, House slammed his hand _hard_ into the wall, rattling the paper towel dispenser and shaking a few of the towels to the floor. Twice more, and then his hand was bleeding.

One of the things Wilson had become reasonably good at was giving House space, allowing him to take his own time to process things. Wilson hadn't seen House this angry since long before Thompson had entered his life. Now House was so enraged, he was crying and spitting out curses under his breath.

Without comment, Wilson wet another paper towel and handed it to House, who wrapped it around his bleeding hand. After a moment, Wilson tried conversation again, this time going for honest bluntness and cynicism.

"Still think treating Tritter like any other patient was such a good idea?"

At this, House looked up and glared at him. He huffed out a breath, bit his lower lip and looked away. "Thanks, Wilson. I'd forgotten how good you were at stating the obvious… and always at just the right time."

Although the barb had struck home, Wilson's hands went up, palms forward, defensively. "You're right. My smart mouth betrays me every time."

House took a deep breath and seemed to calm down. "You remember that Hippocratic Oath thing we swore to?"

Wilson nodded.

"At the next AMA convention, I'm offering an amendment."

"Should I guess?"

"I'll save you the trouble. How does 'First, do harm' strike you? But only pertaining to patients named Michael Tritter who pillage and… _rape_… in a misguided and paranoid attempt to get better medical treatment." He winced and swallowed as he said the word _rape_.

"I'd second it," said Wilson, and right at that moment he would have.

* * * *

Within minutes of House's stormy departure, Rainie had fallen into an exhausted but restless sleep. When Wilson (minus House, who had retreated to his office) returned, he found Roberts and Evan softly conversing in the corner of the room. Sidling up next to Evan, he listened silently as the two discussed the contents of Evan's satchel.

After a moment, once he'd gotten the gist of the conversation, thinking back on the conversation he'd had with Rainie just… _could it have been only this morning?_ Wilson interrupted.

"Joe, is this enough to have the man arrested?"

Roberts nodded thoughtfully.

"How about convicted?" asked Evan. "I mean, with what we discovered?"

"Not sure," said the FBI agent. "I'm no lawyer, but it seems strong to me. Certainly, there's enough to show a pattern of vindictive behavior, but whether that would be allowed in a court of law, I don't know. With Rainie's testimony, though… if she could testify that she heard her attackers say that Tritter had put them up to it, well, that would cinch it."


	17. Chapter 17: Mystery

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** All Wilson knew was that he felt ill at ease, and he felt an inexplicable desire to find House, to make sure he was okay.

**Chapter 17:**** Mystery**

After sharing a quiet lunch with Evan, Wilson headed down to House's office, not sure what he expected to find. For a destroyed man who had been completely unable to function less than two years ago, House seemed to be handling these latest developments relatively well, except for his blowup in the men's room. But the way House looked as Rainie's story unfolded made Wilson vaguely uneasy. The stress of the past three days would have been enough to rattle anyone. For someone in House's fragile emotional condition, it had to be that much worse.

When he got to the Diagnostics Department, Wilson found the conference room dark and the door to House's office locked. Flipping on the conference room light, he tried going through the adjoining door, and found it locked as well.

In the old days, when Wilson and House shared adjoining offices, Wilson would have hopped over the dividing wall between their balconies and approached House's office from the outside. But now, House was on the more accessible first floor, and he never left the balcony door unlocked—a slightly paranoid (but certainly not unreasonable) reaction to having been attacked repeatedly and without warning over a period of years.

Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was not an old building, but it was old enough to have developed its own legends, and not just of the murdered Dr. Cameron or the return of the mentally, emotionally and physically tortured Gregory House. At different times, nurses claimed to see the spirits of patients and doctors who had died over the years. Right now, Wilson felt a little like a ghost himself, wandering the halls in search of something, not even quite sure what.

All he knew was that he felt ill at ease, and he felt an inexplicable desire to find House, to make sure he was okay. What had happened to Rainie, on the heels of Foreman's outburst and House's arrest in the preceding days, had shaken Wilson more than he was willing to admit.

He wandered over to the ER, hoping to run into Chase, but the staff there said they hadn't seen him since Rainie was brought in the day before. Leaving the ER, he took a 90-degree turn in the lobby and headed to the Clinic. No luck there, either. "Dr. Foreman's probably in Neurology," said one of the nurses. "I haven't seen Dr. Chase. Oh, you know what, though—Dr. Rajghatta was just here. Try the break room." But when he opened the door to the Clinic's staff break room, it was empty.

Giving up on finding House's team, Wilson continued on his quest to find his friend. It wasn't like House to leave the building, or even his office, so Wilson decided he must have returned to Rainie's room on the third floor. On his way back to her room, lost in his own emotions, Wilson suddenly realized he'd gotten off the elevator on the wrong floor. Looking around to get his bearings, he found himself in front of Michael Tritter's room.

After being confronted so glaringly with the police detective's true vindictive nature, Wilson felt his heart speed up. Refusing to give himself time think better of it, he shoved the door open and marched in. Startled, a dozing Tritter stared at the furious man invading his room.

"You son of a bitch," said Wilson through gritted teeth, stalking threateningly toward the patient. He was surprised, when Tritter pulled back into the pillows propping him up, as if afraid that Wilson would hurt him. _Huh_, thought Wilson. _Just like a bully—he can dish it out, but he can't take it._

"What's the matter with you?!" asked Tritter, looking genuinely nervous.

"Cut the shit," said Wilson, coming close enough to tower over Tritter in his bed. "You know perfectly well what's the matter with me. You sent a bunch of goons to destroy House's home. They beat up and raped a patient of his who was recuperating there, leaving her to die out in the snow."

For a second, Tritter was speechless. _Somebody was in that place? _But then, as he considered it, he decided he didn't actually care—not if it got that junkie to treat him better.So he shifted his position, sitting up taller in the bed, and leaning toward Wilson, his eyes narrowing and his voice dropping into that low whisper that had so scared the crap out of Wilson eight years earlier.

"So what if I did? No one around here was willing to make that drugged-up best friend of yours find out what's making me sick. He needed to know who was in charge here."

_He's actually crazy_, thought Wilson for the first time. _Certifiable_. After a startled pause, he shook his head. Mimicking Tritter's tone of voice, he leaned over the sick man and whispered, "You don't care that an innocent woman nearly died because of you?"

Without a pause, his eyes locked onto Wilson's, Tritter answered, "Not particularly. Not if it gets me what I want."

Wilson grit his teeth. "Well, guess what, Tritter. You're not in charge. You're just… useless."

With that impotent remark, he turned and left the room. _He's confessed,_ thought Wilson after the fact, reeling with something that felt remarkably like relief. He had to find Joe Roberts and tell him what Tritter had said… but not until he located House.

As he looked back through the glass window into Tritter's room, Wilson heard a ghostly voice from the past—Tritter as he had been eight years earlier, when his primary motivation was to destroy House's career.

"Once an addict, always an addict," said the voice.

_Once a bully, always a bully_, thought Wilson in return. He felt immensely satisfied with himself as he got back on the elevator, this time making sure he pushed the right button.

Even more than before, Wilson wanted to find House, if only to tell him he'd been right about Tritter all those years ago… as if House hadn't already known that. When would he learn that House was usually right? Standing in the elevator, his mind racing and his heart pounding, he went over all the places House might have been. There was no logical reason for it, but he felt his palms begin to sweat with anxiety. Arriving at Rainie's room, he tried to calm himself down before sliding open the door. Surely House was here. Where else could he have gone?

He put on his cheerful doctor mask as he stepped into the room, not wanting House to see the irrational anxiety on his face. Rainie was asleep in the bed straight ahead of him, and Joe Roberts was nowhere to be seen. When he turned his head to the left, expecting to find House dozing in the other bed, his breath caught. The bed was empty.

* * * *

"You've looked everywhere?" Cuddy asked.

Wilson nodded mutely. His anxiety had now turned into bare-knuckled fear, and he couldn't hide it any more. He couldn't stop thinking about his unpleasant conversation with Tritter. At this point, he wouldn't put anything past the man. If, even in his paranoia, Tritter still had the power to have House arrested on trumped-up charges and had sent a gang to wreak havoc at the duplex, there was no reason to believe he hadn't found some other way to try to control House.

Wilson's fear was contagious and Cuddy was susceptible, especially after he'd told her about talking to Tritter. She tried to reign in her own nerves, but all she managed to do was disguise them just enough so they didn't escalate Wilson's near panic attack.

"Okay," she said, trying to sound calmer than she felt. "Maybe he went to your office while you were looking for him, and then went back to his office… well, you see where I'm going with this. It's a big hospital. You might have just missed each other. For all you know, he could be in one of the bathrooms."

That sounded reasonable enough. Maybe that's what happened. But if it was that simple, then why did Wilson still feel so apprehensive?

"I guess so," he replied unwillingly.

"So, let's approach this logically. I'll call Security, and have them search floor by floor. We'll check the security videos. Don't worry—we'll find him. Did he drive his car in yesterday? Could he have decided to go home to rest?"

Again, it sounded reasonable, but Wilson had driven House into work the day before. Suddenly it hit Wilson: House had no home to go to. So that was out. It was beyond unlikely that he would have taken a cab back to the duplex. If he had decided to go somewhere else, he would have told Wilson first. He never went off on his own anymore.

The Security team's search turned up Foreman, Devi and Chase, all of whom were in perfectly reasonably places, but no House. Now House's team gathered together with Wilson in Cuddy's office, sitting in the conversation corner where she often wooed donors.

"Where did you see him last?" asked Cuddy, who had managed to focus her nervous anxiety onto the constructive task of organizing the search.

The three answered almost simultaneously.

"In the office," said Devi.

"Going into his office," said Chase.

"Diagnostics," said Foreman.

Well, at least there was a certain consistency about it.

"You're sure he wasn't there?" Cuddy asked Wilson.

He started to say something sarcastic about how stupid did she think he was, but then the locked doors suddenly came back to haunt him. "I-I… Fuck!" he said unexpectedly. "The doors were locked and the lights were off, so I assumed…" House's voice from years ago—the strong and mocking voice he'd once had—sang out in his mind, tossing off something caustic about making assumptions.

What if he had been in his office all along? What if he'd locked himself in, or worse yet, what if someone was in that office with him?

Cuddy must have come to the same conclusion, because almost before Wilson had formulated the idea, Cuddy had jumped up, an alarmed expression in her eyes. By the time he'd stumbled to his feet and noticed House's staff doing the same, Cuddy was on her cell with Security, ordering someone with a set of master keys to meet her at Diagnostics.

The five of them ran out of Cuddy's office and headed through the lobby toward Diagnostics, close to the back of the building by the ER entrance.

One of the security guards met them at the door to House's office, keys in hand. He struggled for a moment, trying to find the right key for the door.

"Just open it, Goddammit," said a now terrified and exasperated Wilson, having difficulty restraining himself from just grabbing the keys.

Finally, the right key was inserted in the lock… and the door still wouldn't open. The foot-operated bottom bolt had been shot from the inside. Thinking quickly, Cuddy grabbed the keys and ran through the conference room to try the inside door.

While the security guard slammed all his weight against the door, Wilson heard Cuddy's faint voice, rising in agitation. "This one's bolted, too."

As Cuddy returned to the hallway, Foreman, Chase and Wilson all exchanged glances and nodded in nonverbal agreement. Without saying a word, they added their heft to the security guard's weight against the door. Suddenly, something cracked loudly, and Wilson saw the wood of the door begin to splinter. For a second, he pictured Rainie, safe in her bed, hearing a similar splintering. Then he shoved the thought away. Once more. And again… and finally, they were through.

The hallway was brightly lit, which made House's office seem that much darker. Wilson fumbled for the switch, his hand shaking, afraid of what he'd find when the lights came on.

It took a second or two for their eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room, and then there was a collective gasp.

"Oh, dear God, no!" cried Cuddy.

Wilson froze, terrors realized.

Foreman, who had stood in this very room three days ago, petrifying House into a shivering heap on the floor, was the first to get to the body.

"House!" yelled Chase, close on Foreman's heels, as he dropped to the floor near the desk. "House!" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh, God! _House!_"

For Wilson, time slowed down. The voices around him were muffled, colors blurred and movements decelerated. He was completely unaware of having done so, but he sank to his knees, as if in prayer, and crawled across the floor toward the others, not breathing, not thinking, not feeling.

Foreman's fingers were on House's neck, which had a bluish cast to it in this low light. Wilson saw Foreman make eye contact with Chase, who was clearly shaken. In Wilson's slow motion version of time, they seemed to stare eye to eye for an eternity while he heard his own heart beating loudly and ploddingly in his ears. Foreman's head moved slightly side to side and then up and down, but Wilson couldn't comprehend what those subtle communications actually meant.

A loud noise snapped everything back into real time, as he felt rather than saw Devi rush past him, pulling the front end of a gurney behind her.

Through it all—slow motion and fast—House remained frighteningly still, crumpled on the floor.


	18. Chapter 18: Once a , Always a

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**Apologies:** Sorry for the delay, especially on such a cliffhanger. Just to recap: _Foreman's fingers were on House's neck, which had a bluish cast to it in this low light. Wilson saw Foreman make eye contact with Chase, who was clearly shaken. In Wilson's slow motion version of time, they seemed to stare eye to eye for an eternity while he heard his own heart beating loudly and ploddingly in his ears. Foreman's head moved slightly side to side and then up and down, but Wilson couldn't comprehend what those subtle communications actually meant._

**This Chapter:** An awful sense of doom pervaded Foreman… _Come on! I need a pulse. Dammit, House! Don't die on me now! Not before I get a chance to make it right._

**Chapter 18:**** Once a _, Always a _.**

When Foreman and Chase reached House, he was curled under his desk, uncannily mimicking the position he'd been in three days earlier, when Foreman's angry outburst had sent him to the floor.

While Foreman was checking House's carotid, Chase took hold of his left wrist to feel for something—anything—under the layers of scars. Both doctors were barely breathing themselves as they felt for signs of life, pressing the cold and clammy skin in search of a pulse.

An awful sense of doom pervaded Foreman. Okay, he finally had to face it. Not only had he been desperately wrong about House, but, for the first time, he wanted to acknowledge just how much he cared about the frail man lying on the floor next to him. _Come on! I need a pulse. Dammit, House! Don't die on me now! Not before I get a chance to make it right._

For Chase, who had always been more aware of his own conflicted feelings about his boss than Foreman was, the passing seconds were simply excruciating.

Their eyes met over House's prone body. At first, Foreman shook his head from side to side, which Chase took to mean that he hadn't found a pulse, but then his eyes flickered with something that looked like relief as he nodded almost imperceptibly up and down. Yes! Something was there, however faint. And since Chase was unable to feel any life beneath the corded scars, he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that Foreman was with him.

Along with Devi, they slid House onto the gurney, raised it up and the three of them—Foreman, Chase and Devi—raced toward the ER, so focused on their task that they nearly mowed down a couple of unsuspecting patients in their path.

Wilson struggled to his feet, trailing after them as fast as he could, unaware of Cuddy trotting along right behind him. When they caught up with the gurney, they saw Devi grab an oxygen mask and Foreman hook House to an EKG and a pulse ox. His heart rate and pulse were too low. House's heart was barely pumping. _The monitors aren't right_, thought Wilson, his brain working only languidly. _Something's wrong with the equipment._ As the team of doctors attempted to put their feelings aside and function as professionals, it hadn't yet dawned on any of them to wonder what had caused House's collapse.

Suddenly, he heard Cuddy's voice as she scooted up next to him.

"What is it?" she asked, a little breathlessly. "What's happened to him?"

Foreman's head snapped back. Glaring at her, he replied with a semblance of House's old sarcastic tone, "Don't know yet. Let's get him stable and then let's figure it out."

Chastised and looking stunned, Cuddy nodded her head in mute agreement.

Foreman started an IV, and pumped something—Wilson was too discombobulated to notice what—into the IV line.

After another long minute, House's vitals began to improve slightly, his heart rate eventually increasing to the lower end of normal.

Wilson's adrenalin charge of the past hour suddenly wore off, and he felt enervated, his limbs as heavy as lead. He forced himself to remain standing, when all he really wanted to do was tumble in a heap on the floor.

Behind him, he heard Cuddy talking to the security guard—what was his name again? George? Tom?

"But all the doors were locked," Cuddy was saying.

"I already told you, Dr. Cuddy. There's no way anyone else could have been in there," the guard said.

Realization landed hard on Wilson, staggering him until he had to lean against the wall to keep from falling to the floor.

"He's done it to himself," he whispered thickly to Foreman and Chase, whose eyes widened. They both nodded in unison, as if the truth of the situation had only just occurred to them.

"Was there anything on the floor near him?" asked Chase. Then, enunciating slowly when no one responded, he said, "Did. You. See. Anything?"

Wilson shook his head. He couldn't remember. Turning, he started to head back to check House's office.

"Wait!" yelled Foreman, who had hold of House's right arm. Wilson ran back to House's side. "There's something in his hand."

Wilson caught just a glimpse of an orange pill bottle. _Fuck! What had he done?_ Wilson reached over and pried the bottle from House's clenched fist. _No_. "Dilaudid," he said, feeling sick. "It's his pain meds." He shook the bottle, knowing in the pit of his stomach that he wouldn't hear a rattle. He was right.

"Why?" asked Devi, who stood helplessly near the head of the gurney. "Why would he do it? Why, after everything he's been through, would he do it now?"

Somehow, although his muddled brain didn't want to go there, Wilson suspected that he knew why, but he really didn't want to say it aloud. Forcing himself, he replied, hearing his voice reverberate in his ears, sounding low and sluggish. "It's been too much. He's spent a year dragging his life—such as it is—back together. And now Tritter has destroyed it all... and has injured his patient, too. Maybe…"—he could barely bring himself to say it—"maybe he thought… that anyone he got close to would always be in danger… or maybe… he just couldn't handle it anymore."

There was more than that, though, and Wilson had no intention of voicing those dark thoughts. Through all the torture, House's only way out was to die. But if he died, he knew that others—including some of those hovering over him now—would suffer. So he refused to allow himself that option, despite its obvious temptation. Now the world of insane businessmen and crazy cops had slapped him in the face yet again, and it was too much. Now, the people House cared about suffered becausehe was alive. Now, he could make the choice that would end his own suffering and might actually help the people he cared about. Or at least he might think so.

"Godammit, House! How could you? How could you?" Cuddy's voice joined the cacophony in Wilson's head. "I never should have let Tritter anywhere near him. It's all my fault."

Suddenly full of fury again, Wilson rounded on her. "Yes, Cuddy. It _is_ your fault. How could you let that man anywhere near him? His home is ruined, Rainie may never recover from this, and now he's tried to kill himself. Look at what you've done. _Look at him! _"

Cuddy reeled back, stunned as if he'd slapped her with his hand instead of his words. But her temper brought her back around, and she responded by yelling that Wilson should have kept closer watch on House if he thought his friend was that fragile.

In the midst of this yelling match between Wilson and Cuddy's conscience, Chase snapped.

"Will you two just shut the fuck up? Or at least take it outside? We need to concentrate here. In case you'd forgotten, we're trying to save his life."

Shocked into silence, Cuddy and Wilson complied.

His heart still pounding from the latest adrenal rush, Wilson watched as Chase pushed a long catheter into House's left nostril, where it would slide past his esophagus and into his stomach. Once it was fully inserted, Chase started to push syrup of ipecac.

"Ipecac?" asked Wilson, interrupting him. "Shouldn't you be giving him naltrexone for a rapid detox?"

Chase felt anger building inside him. He stuffed it back inside and tried to answer calmly. "No, Wilson," he said deliberately, as if lecturing a small child. "We can't detox him. He's in far too much pain for that." He might as well have called Wilson an idiot. The only option they had without putting House at risk for unbearable pain was ipecac to force vomiting, activated charcoal to absorb whatever medication they could, and a cathartic to empty the intestines.

"Oh… didn't think of that. Sorry. You're right," said Wilson, abashed. He stepped back to allow Chase and Foreman space to work. They were, after all, much more competent than he was to handle emergency situations.

"Help me roll him on his left side," Chase said to no one in particular. "And someone find me an emesis basin." Glad to have something constructive to do, Devi ran out and returned almost immediately with the emesis basin, holding it near House's face.

They had a long wait. Although they immediately began suctioning the stomach contents with the stomach pump, syrup of ipecac takes twenty to thirty minutes to take effect—twenty to thirty minutes House might not have. For a long while, nothing much happened. Suddenly, with no forewarning, House began to gag convulsively.

"Turn him!" yelled Chase, as Foreman pushed on House's back to get him further onto his side, almost onto his stomach, and Devi held the basin close to his mouth.

_When did he swallow the pills_? Wilson wondered, fearful that too many had already been absorbed into his system… that it was too late. It had been at least three or four hours since he'd seen House leave the men's room for his office. _When had the idea come to him?_ In Rainie's room? In the men's room? Or back at his office? Had he taken the pills right away, once he'd locked himself in? Or had he sat there, playing with the pill bottle, popping the top and rolling the tablets around in his hand, thinking for long minutes about what he was about to do?

The man who could answer those questions was semi-conscious, throwing up into the basin.

Once again, Wilson saw Foreman and Chase exchange a look he couldn't decipher. _What? What were they thinking?_

As the pills began to come up, Chase started counting. _Two and a partial. Five. Four more._ He looked over at Foreman, who wore a quizzical look that distinctly said _Any pills, or just bile? _With his eyes, Chase gestured toward the bowl, allowing his growing sense of relief to become apparent. _Pills. So not everything had been absorbed_. Now, if there were just enough of them, if most of them wound up in the basin and not digested.

"How many?" asked Chase sharply, snapping Wilson out of his reverie.

"Wh-what? How many what?" Wilson stared at him in confusion.

"Pills, Wilson. How many pills? How many in the prescription and when was it prescribed?"

Wilson stared at the label on the amber bottle, willing his eyes back into focus, but nothing was making sense. He was too emotionally involved to think objectively.

"For God's sake, Wilson! I need to know _now!_ How many?"

A hand snatched the bottle from Wilson—Foreman's hand.

"Ninety prescribed," came Foreman's clinical voice. "Two tablets three times a day. Prescribed five days ago."

Chase figured it quickly in his head. "Too many," he said, afraid that the waver in his voice would give away his rising panic. He looked back down at the basin, recounting. _Eleven, fifteen, twenty._ He had to have swallowed at least forty tablets, probably as many as sixty. Unless something happened quickly, they were going to be too late.

"Oh, no," came a quiet female voice from the back of the room. Devi had just done the math. Wilson felt her push past him. "Give him more ipecac. Now."

"But you can't," said Wilson. "You'll poison him." As the words left his mouth, he realized how stupid they sounded. "You know what I mean. Ipecac poisoning."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," said Devi, joining the chorus of professionals who seemed to see Wilson as an intrusion. "Right now, we've got to get however many pills he's still got in his stomach out as fast as possible before they dissolve and enter his bloodstream."

Numb, Wilson nodded. "Of course. Do it."

Before Foreman had even finished administering the second dose, more of House's stomach contents began to come up.

"Three more… oops, I mean five. That gets us up to twenty-five. I'd feel a lot better if we could get a few more out before they dissolve any further. Hey, here are four… no three and a half… two more."

As the number of relatively intact tablets swam in the digestive fluids at the bottom of the emesis basin, the concerned group grew slightly more hopeful. None of them dared think about what happened next, what physical aftereffects there might be from the Dilaudid… and now ipecac… or the psychological repercussions. There was no way any of them could pretend this was anything but what it was—an extremely determined suicide attempt. And yet, given the circumstances of the past few days… and of the past few years… at that very moment, not one person in that room felt inclined to blame House for his decision.

Beginning shortly after Wilson's intrusion, Princeton Police researcher Stan Skelton spent a good 45 minutes with his buddy, Michael Tritter, divvying up the folders into three discrete categories: 1) lawsuits and/or complaints filed against Gregory House, 2) a list of patients who had been treated by the doctor and the outcomes of that treatment, and 3) clippings of news stories mentioning House. The first category outweighed the second in sheer volume, but the third outweighed them both by vast multiples. One of the first things that caught Tritter's attention was that, despite the high number of lawsuits and complaints against House, nearly all charges were ultimately dropped.

Once he got to reading through the second file, it didn't escape Tritter's notice that famous names were listed among House's patients, along with many names he didn't recognize. Over the next hour or so, as Tritter tried desperately to focus his jittering eyes, he skimmed through the material, surreptitiously stashing the folders under his blanket whenever someone came into the room.

He wanted leverage to use against House, anything he could find to force the doctor into treating him fairly, but something else emerged as he scanned the files.

The news stories revealed glowing quotes from the famous, the infamous and the obscure, testaments to House's almost uncanny ability to find the answer when no one else could… to save lives other physicians had given up on. He found not only praise from past patients, but also tributes from fellow doctors at PPTH and from professionals at the CDC, the NIH, the Mayo Clinic, Johns Hopkins, UCLA Medical Center, and most of the major hospitals around the world. At first, he thought it was all hospital PR hype, but as the number of quotes piled up from individuals and organizations, he began to wonder if some of them might be legit.

It was almost incomprehensible to Tritter, but he found virtually no quotes from the doctor himself, as if this abrasive, impossible, outrageous drug addict might actually prefer to remain out of the spotlight.

As he read, Tritter felt his heart rate increase as he became more and more agitated and confused. Almost against his will, he found himself wondering how often House had turned down interview requests because they took time away from patients who needed his attention. Despite his distrust of the man, Tritter was caught by the hopeful idea that perhaps, indeed, Gregory House was the only one who could figure out what was wrong with him.

Reading a few more items in the clipping files, Tritter noted that House's 95 percent success rate was repeatedly mentioned, as if this was both unusual and remarkable. Some of the earlier stories discussed his leg injury, with medical professionals chiming in on the extreme pain House endured on a daily basis, something that Tritter—in his eagerness for vengeance after the thermometer incident—had never even bothered to give credence to. The later stories, of course, were much more concerned with what had happened to House because of Thompson—his torture, wrongful arrest for murder and then, finally, his vindication and the multimillion dollar settlements that had come his way from both the state of New Jersey and Thompson's estate.

A new thought occurred to Tritter. _Why would he keep working?_ _Why not stay home after all this?_ For the first time—almost against his will—he put himself in House's place and wondering how he would handle the traumas that had come House's way. He found himself thinking of House as a human being, not just as a drug addict.

By early afternoon, he was wiped out, his head hurting from information overload and from the effort to focus his twitching eyes. He hid the folders under the blanket and allowed his eyes to drift shut.

**TBC….**


	19. Chapter 19: A Horrible Thought

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** Suddenly, Wilson had a horrible thought. Almost before it became concrete, he began backing out of the emergency exam room, nearly bumping into Cuddy as he got close to the curtain-covered entrance.

**Chapter 19:**** A Horrible Thought**

_Thirty. Thirty-two. Thirty-three._ Barely breathing, their respirations as shallow as House's, the doctors hovered as they silently kept count, a few more pills trickling into the basin. But although the numbers inched slowly higher, the quality of those pills began to deteriorate. _Half a pill here, and a fraction of a pill there. _

Suddenly, Wilson had a horrible thought. Almost before it became concrete, he began backing out of the emergency exam room, nearly bumping into Cuddy as he got close to the curtain-covered entrance.

"What is it, Wilson?" she asked, her eyes scanning him worriedly. "Are you okay?" He looked pale and shaken—but then, didn't they all?

Not wanting to frighten her until he had evidence, Wilson forced a smile, and said, "Just need some air. Be right back."

As soon as he was clear of the ER, he took off in a sprint to House's office, where he found the maintenance staff quietly replacing the splintered door. Two of the three men looked up as he approached.

"Hi, guys," said Wilson, trying to sound casual. "Just realized I left something inside." Without giving them a chance to argue, he stepped through the doorway and walked swiftly to House's desk. A quick glance confirmed what he'd been afraid to find. Closing his eyes, he took a very deep breath, held it for a count of ten and then slowly released it. Grabbing the evidence from House's desk, he turned and ran back to the ER, arriving almost before most of the others had even noticed he'd left.

Clearing his throat, "_H-h-hmmm_," he tried to get their attention. When that didn't work, he just started talking, his voice shaky. "He ground some of them up," he said as the room froze once again. He hated the horrified looks his statement garnered. "And he drank them down with whiskey." He held up the mortar and pestle, its insides coated in fine powder, and the drained glass with a swig of bronze liquid still swirling in the bottom.

"Fuck," said Cuddy.

For a moment time stopped. Then, suddenly, the activity started up again.

"Doesn't matter," said Foreman. Chase nodded in agreement. "We still have to try to get any that are in his system out."

As Foreman was finishing his sentence, Chase began another. "We can't give up. No matter what he may have wanted, we can't let… _oh, God!_" The emotion of the situation suddenly overwhelmed Chase, and tears sprang to his eyes. Cuddy moved forward, putting her hand on his back and rubbing in a circular pattern.

"It's okay," she offered.

"No, Cuddy, it's not," snapped back Chase angrily, biting his lip fiercely and rubbing his eyes on his sleeve, shrugging off her hand. "It's not okay at all, and it's probably not going to _be _okay."

His words hung in the room a moment before settling on all five doctors. Cuddy replaced her hand on his back and continued to rub.

"What I meant was," she whispered, "that you're doing a great job. Don't let him go."

Twenty minutes later, House stopped gagging. Five minutes before that, the last pill had come up, bringing the total to forty-three. If he'd taken fifty pills, that was an acceptable—but not great—number. If he'd taken closer to sixty, which was more likely, it was much worse.

As they had worked on him, House's eyes had fluttered open and he'd murmured anguished phrases of fear off and on throughout the stomach-emptying process; now his eyes began to slide shut. Suddenly, without warning, Foreman slapped him hard across the face. House didn't respond.

The sound snapped everyone to attention. "What the hell, Foreman?" yelled Cuddy, sprinting across the room and grabbing his outstretched hand, which was headed rapidly toward House's face again. Foreman twisted his hand from her grasp.

"Cuddy, let go!" His face was strangely anguished as he tried again to swing at House.

"I knew I shouldn't let you back in here. What's the matter with you?" Using both hands she gripped his arm with all her strength, fighting a losing battle against the much larger and stronger man.

"We can't let him fall asleep," he replied angrily, shaking her off. He took a calming breath. Cuddy's ignorance was wasting costly seconds. "We've got to keep him awake or we may lose him! Let go of me."

Pushing her away, Foreman raised his hand and slapped his boss again, the clout echoing throughout the small room. House recoiled, but only slightly, his eyes drooping shut again almost immediately.

Suddenly, the gurney was crowded by the five doctors, all trying different methods of waking House up. Devi took hold of one of his feet, pulling off his shoe and sock, and began tickling the scarred sole of his foot. Picking up her cue, Wilson began tickling House's side. Chase took a deep breath and grabbed a scalpel, poking the sharp point at his tender underarm, and Cuddy—once she had recovered from her shock—began twisting his nipples.

It felt as if they were torturing him, and not one of them was able to avoid having that horrible thought. But it worked. After a few seconds, House's eyes popped open, and he began to yelp. Incoherent sounds issued forth, sounds of terror at being reminded of his past, but at least he was awake. Not very lucid… definitely terrified… but awake.

They propped him up on the gurney, and began talking to him. Whenever his eyes began to drift shut, one of them would tickle him or pinch—anything to keep him awake.

Finally, he began flailing his arms around, trying to ward them off. "Lemme go!" he mumbled. "No more! No more!"

"Sorry, House," said Foreman. "You have to stay awake. You have to."

"No!" cried House, beginning to weep. "Don't have to. Don't have to. Lemme go!"

For a moment, none of the five doctors breathed, interpreting House's plaintive plea both as a request for them to quit poking, pinching, prodding… torturing him… to let go of his body—and also to let him die, to allow him to complete what he'd set out to do.

Suddenly, Cuddy couldn't take it any more. As she stepped back, the logical part of her brain took hold for the first time in… _how long had it been...?_ She became aware that there were several issues at hand. The most obvious: Could House survive? Then, in a rush, other thoughts flooded her mind: What kind of aftereffects would he suffer if he did? Could they forestall the withdrawal symptoms that would damage House's already weakened body? Was there brain or other systemic damage from his suicide attempt?

But one other problem pertained only to her. What was her professional and ethical responsibility in this unique situation? Legally, she was obliged to report an attempted suicide—technically, it was a crime—but given her current feelings about the Princeton police department, she was tempted to let it slide. Under normal circumstances—and these were far from normal—anyone who attempted suicide would be placed under at least a 24-hour watch. In addition, as an employee of the hospital, House would also have to be given a mandatory psychological leave of absence for three months. Not only was she loathe to do any of those things to House, but given the nature of his infamy, the press would be on it in no time. No, she couldn't allow those vultures to get at him again, especially now when he was clearly so vulnerable.

And so, given the unusual circumstances, Cuddy was tempted to… no, she really couldn't… could she? Could she convince the other four in this room to cover it up?

She thought back to the moment when they crashed through the door to his office. Had the security guard seen anything? Would he talk? The PPTH rumor mill was incredibly potent. If the guard had talked, the whole place would know by now. Had he still been standing there when Wilson announced that House had intentionally taken something? She didn't remember being aware of him. Wait a second. She'd been talking to the guard when Wilson had his revelation. _Damn it. _Had the man overheard? Had anyone else heard them?

Cuddy realized she was hanging her hopes on slim possibilities, but those were the only kinds she had. Word must be all over the hospital by now. Right outside this cocoon of an exam room, the staff would be buzzing about how House had tried to kill himself. House had tried to kill himself. _House had tried to kill himself! _Dejected, she stepped through the curtained entry, and trudged toward her office to think it out. Much to her surprise, none of the hospital staff who crossed her path seemed to regard her with any unusual interest.

She drew close to the main desk, seeing Brenda Previn on duty. Their eyes met, and Brenda came close to talk to her privately. _Here we go,_ thought Cuddy, girding herself. If anyone in the building was gossiping about House's suicide attempt, Brenda Previn would have heard it by now. But Brenda astonished her.

"Is House okay?" Brenda whispered in her ear, clearly attempting to keep anyone nearby from hearing her. "We heard he collapsed in his office."

Holding her breath and making up her mind on the spot, Cuddy replied, "Yes. He had a bad episode—drug interaction—all those different medications he's on—we think someone at the online prescription plan didn't catch it. Idiots."

Okay, now she'd done it. She'd actively lied… and blamed his symptoms on a prescription drug company. Trying to observe Previn's reaction without seeming to pay an inordinate amount of attention, Cuddy was relieved when the nurse appeared to believe her story.

"Oh, how awful," said Previn, responding with genuine concern. "Can't they hire competent people to keep track of these things? God knows they're getting enough of our money. And hasn't House had enough _tsouris_ this week?"

Cuddy nodded her head, afraid to say more, vaguely remembering having read that liars tend to give themselves away by talking too much. Pivoting on her heel, she walked briskly back to the ER. She had to get the rest of them to agree to keep this quiet, or the whole thing would blow up in her face.

When she slipped back into the room, she found it eerily still. Foreman was detaching House's body from the EKG, and all three of the other doctors were looking at the floor. She was stunned. What had happened in the minute or two she'd been gone? Her eyes filled with tears, until, after a moment, she saw House's chest gently rise and fall.

"He's alive," she said stupidly, hearing echoes of old Universal _Frankenstein_ films in her head. "What are you doing? Why aren't you helping him?"

The four looked up at her, startled.

"We are," said Chase, looking confused.

"B-but his monitors…" she said, pointing.

Foreman interrupted. "We're just readjusting the equipment before getting ready to move him to a room. He's stable."

Looking more closely, she saw House's hollow, haunted eyes following her, his face mostly covered by a respirator, and she began to breathe again. As her heart settled down, her questions remained. "Then what's going on here?" Her four doctors looked at each other, guilt pouring out of them.

"Nothing," said Wilson, slowly and warily, his eyes looking everywhere but directly at her, beneath those absurdly shaggy brows, so at odds with his sweet baby face. "What makes you think something's going on?" Wilson's face gave him away every time; he never could lie or keep a secret.

Cuddy almost laughed, partly from nervous tension and partly because they all looked like small children who had been caught licking the icing off a birthday cake. As she glanced around the room, she saw that not a single one of them looked innocent. "Okay… Before you all incriminate yourselves, I want to talk to you seriously about something." She motioned them in around her and spoke softly so that House couldn't hear her words. "I know what you're going to say, but just this once, would you consider letting what's happened here go under the radar?"

A palpable sigh went around the room. No one spoke while she looked from face to face, waiting for one of them to threaten to turn her in to the AMA for unprofessional conduct. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought they looked pleased. Unexpectedly, Chase, who seemed to have been appointed their designated leader, broke out smiling. Keeping his voice low, he said, "We were just about to ask you the same thing." Taken aback, she saw all of the others—Wilson, Devi and even Foreman—nodding their heads. "We were sure you would, well, at the very least yell at us or at most threaten disciplinary hearings."

Cuddy sighed. "I guess normally I would," she said. "It's just that…" She gestured with her forearms, palms open, to suggest that she didn't know how to end the sentence.

"It's just that this is different," said Devi, continuing the thought Cuddy couldn't complete. "The circumstances are so unique, and the pressures on him so extraordinary…" This time it was Devi who was stumped for an ending, and Foreman who picked up the thread.

"…that we'd rather handle this quietly if we can," said Foreman.

After a pause, Wilson said, "We owe him."

Clearly, they were all in agreement.

"Done," said Cuddy without any further thought, even though this decision could cost them all their licenses and their careers. "It's _got _to stay among us, though. No one else—and I mean, _no one_—can know about this. We'll all lose our licenses. Now, have you thought through the logistics? I mean, obviously, most important, we've got to keep him alive. But beyond that, we need to know why he's done this, and we have to make sure he doesn't try it again. Are you all prepared to take shifts with him until he's physically and emotionally stable?"

Wilson nodded. "We'd just worked that out when you came back."

Devi nodded. "If anyone asks why his office was locked—well, he's been unusually anxious after what happened with the police. Because of his history, I don't think anyone will question it."

"Good," said Cuddy, pleased that they were thinking rationally about the details, because she certainly wasn't. She informed them of the drug interaction lie she had told Brenda Previn.

"Once we get him settled upstairs, we'll start him on the naltrexone and a tiny amount of methadone," said Chase. "His body won't be able to handle the pain without it, and we don't dare give him any other painkillers."

"Okay, then," she said, a little amazed that they were all in sync. "Let's get him into a room and pray that he survives. You're right. We owe him this much."


	20. Chapter 20: Anger

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** Suddenly, House's body began to twitch, his extremities flinging themselves randomly into the air. Almost as suddenly, his body collapsed back into its unnatural stillness. Then the monitors began to drone.

**Chapter 20:**** Anger**

Suddenly, House's body began to twitch, his extremities flinging themselves randomly into the air. Almost as suddenly, his body collapsed back into its unnatural stillness. Then the monitors began to drone.

"Shit!" yelled Chase, while Foreman called, "Crash cart!"

Within seconds, they had ripped open House's shirt and applied the paddles. Once. Twice. Three times… and his heart restarted. That was the good news. The bad news was that a few minutes later, he slipped into a coma.

"Oh, crap," said Devi, panting with anxiety once everything calmed down again.

Chase and Foreman nodded. Once the five doctors had gotten House settled in a room, they had decided that House's employees would take the first shift, because they had more experience with emergency situations. They would stay with House until he was more stable. Then Wilson and Cuddy would take over for a while. In the meantime, they were simply holding vigil, hoping House would wake up.

Half an hour later, Foreman was pacing the room, Chase sat in the corner with his head in his hands, and Devi sat by House's side, holding his hand and watching both him and the monitors. Occasionally, she felt his muscles twitch; she kept a close eye on his lips and fingernails, which were still tinged blue.

An hour later, House began to moan, his eyelids fluttering slightly. Immediately, Foreman and Chase ran to his bedside, hoping he was about to regain consciousness. But then he settled back down, his breathing shallow and labored. Clearly, they were in for the long haul.

Down the corridor, Rainie Adler stared blankly at the ceiling. Since House had left her room, she hadn't spoken a word. Neither had she slept much; she just stared, her face a blank mask. Next to her sat Evan, gently holding her bandaged left hand, and psychiatrist Jacey Liu, who occasionally asked a question in hopes of getting an answer. None was forthcoming.

One floor up, Michael Tritter was awake again, methodically reading through the files fanned out over his bed. During the weeks he had built his case against House, he had taken no interest in House's medical case history, never bothered to find out who he was as a doctor, never believed those who told him that House was an extraordinary physician, never accepted the idea that perhaps House's physical pain was so intense that he took those drugs for a legitimate reason. Until now, all he'd ever looked at was House's drug-taking, judging it as he would a junkie on the street.

He'd been so sure he was right, but now he was beginning to think he'd cut corners. He'd never even tried to put House into any kind of context.

_So tired. Hard to think._ Occasionally, over the last couple of days, he'd felt fear—fear that he had some incurable disease and would die. But now, when those feelings came upon him, he shoved them out of the way and renewed his efforts to find a way to force House to treat him fairly… to include him in that 95 percent success rate… never once considering the possibility that perhaps that was exactly what the doctor was already doing.

At 3 a.m., Wilson dozed restlessly on the couch in his office. Downstairs, in her office, Cuddy did the same.

Around 4 a.m., House opened his eyes groggily, looked around the room, and then, feeling confused, closed his eyes and went to sleep. It happened so quickly that none of his guardians noticed.

At 6 a.m., Wilson and Cuddy appeared in House's room, lugging enough breakfast—bagels, cream cheese, scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, juice—to keep a small army traveling. Devi, Foreman and Chase accepted their share gratefully, and the five of them chatted briefly about House's condition before their shift change. Then, Devi went back to the Diagnostics office and curled up on the sofa near the conference table, Chase headed for the doctor's lounge to sleep and Foreman went home.

Down the hall, Rainie slept fitfully, Evan still at her side. Jacey Liu had gone home to catch a few hours of sleep, unaware that she might soon have to counsel a suicidal patient… if that patient survived long enough to be counseled.

Upstairs, Tritter woke with a start. This time he remembered his dream. It was about House, of course. But the House in this dream wasn't the arrogant son-of-a-bitch who had flaunted his drug addiction in the clinic and refused to apologize for the thermometer incident, obliging Tritter to teach him a lesson. This House was very different.

The face in this dream was bruised and sliced and broken and shattered, sheer terror flooding out of his haunted eyes. This was House as he'd hoped to see him, beaten up, chewed up and spit out, the superiority squashed out of him.

As sleep left him, Tritter realized he'd seen that House before, in glimpses at a news conference and as paparazzi tackled him coming out of a courtroom. He thought about that face, conjuring it in his imagination, satisfied, thinking about how the man deserved it… and occasionally wondering how much House would blame him for wishing that kind of damage on him.

Pain was what finally woke House up around 11 a.m. Slowly, he scanned the room, looking puzzled to see Wilson and Cuddy suddenly rushing to his side.

After a moment, once his two medical sentinels had examined him and given him a slightly higher dose of methadone for his pain, Cuddy looked down at him sadly, brushing her hand gently along the side of his face, and quietly asked, "Why?"

House flinched, jerking his head away. "First, do no harm," he mumbled, whispering the words so quietly she wasn't sure she'd even heard him say anything.

She and Wilson exchanged confused glances. Did he feel they'd harmed him by stopping his suicide attempt?

"I don't understand," said Wilson, trying not to let frustration seep into his voice. He couldn't comprehend how House could have done this, after all the time Wilson had spent trying to help House put his life back together again.

House continued to look away from them. "Should have left well enough alone." And then, as if needing to reiterate the idea, he added, "Why didn't you leave me be?" That was all he said before his eyelids shut and he slid back into an unnaturally deep sleep.

Four hours later, he woke up again. Within seconds, Cuddy was by his side, examining his pupils and noting with relief that his nails and lips had begun to regain a more natural hue. House stared at her, his expression a mixture of anger and disappointment. After a long moment, he swallowed, then spoke.

"Why didn't you leave well enough alone?" he repeated, as if he hadn't said it earlier, his voice raspier than usual. "You should have let me die." Then his eyes met hers, pleading. "Why didn't you let me die?"

Her breath stuttered, and Cuddy felt her heart thumping in her chest as tears sprang to her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Searching his face for an answer, she finally replied, "You know we couldn't do that. We… we couldn't stand to lose you."

"Selfish," he muttered, his expressionless eyes drifting downward, as if daring her to disagree. "It was selfish of you, Cuddy." Tilting his head slightly, House turned toward the wall, smashing his face into the pillow. Stunned and overcome by exhaustion and strong emotion, Cuddy remained still a moment. He was right, of course. She and Wilson, and the others to a lesser extent, wanted House alive for their own reasons, not his—alive at all costs, even if those costs meant that he would spend the rest of his life in unbearable physical and emotional pain. They hadn't taken into account what might be best for him. When she tried again to engage him, he refused to speak, pursing his lips so tightly she could see his cheek muscles throbbing.

Wilson watched as Cuddy stood uselessly next to House's bed, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed. He lowered his head to pick at a spot of what was probably, he realized, dried vomit on his trousers. Then, as if waking from a dream, he slowly looked up and dragged himself over to the bed. Gently but firmly, he turned House's face toward him.

House tried to wrench his head from Wilson's firm grasp, but didn't have the strength to do so. A trickle of fear crossed his face. _Shit_, thought Wilson, lessening his grip just slightly, trying to smile reassuringly at the man who had been restrained enough for one lifetime. "Leave me alone," House muttered through gritted teeth. "If you can't let me die, then just leave me alone."

An unnatural silence followed, painful, intense, intolerable. _Why? Why now?_ Wilson wondered._ Have we done the right thing? Should we have let him die?_

"Not a chance," replied Wilson finally. "Not until you tell us why."

Again, House tried unsuccessfully to wrest his head from Wilson's hands. Huffing an angry breath through his nose, he glared at his captor, rearing back into the mattress.

"Sorry, House, but you don't get a pass on this," said Wilson firmly, not letting go. "You know what we're legally required to do in this situation. I don't think you want that any more than we do. So if we're going to leave you alone, then first you have to talk… you have to tell us why you did this."

With no warning, tears welled up in House's eyes, making them glisten and threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. Wilson felt House's facial muscles contract and his whole head began to tremble as he gasped for air. His own emotions bubbling to the surface, Wilson loosened his uncertain grip even more, allowing House some freedom to move his head slightly. Slipping his left arm around the back of House's head, he cradled House in the crook of his left elbow and held his face steady with his right hand.

"I-I c-can't keep you s-safe," House sighed at last, to Wilson's horror. As the mask of self-control melted, House's stuttering voice was barely a whisper. Then he clamped his mouth shut again.

"Not really your job," said Wilson carefully, unsure of where this was going. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cuddy standing stock-still, clasping House's left hand between hers. She didn't seem to be breathing; the scene from Wilson's vantage point looked like a Victorian-era tableau: The Bedside Vigil.

House's eyes looked past Wilson, briefly making contact with Cuddy and then fixing back on Wilson. "Dangerous," was all he said at first. Then his gaze returned to Cuddy, whose face registered confusion. "You once said that anyone who knows me is bound to get hurt." Cuddy nodded slowly, unable to fathom why that regrettable ancient conversation might precipitate something so drastic. Then he added, "You were right."

Cuddy's heart stopped a moment, and then stuttered forward again. "You don't seriously think you're some sort of jinx, do you? That… if you were…" She didn't want to say the word, after they'd almost lost him just hours earlier. She could barely bring herself to think it, much less utter it. "…_d-dead_…" It caught in her throat. "…that we wouldn't get hurt?"

"Something like that," he said, the slightest of nods issuing forth.

"But House," said Wilson gently, "don't you know that if you were…" _Damn_. He stumbled over it, too. "…_dead_… it would hurt us so much more than anything that could happen with you alive? Do you think it would do Rainie any good to know you killed yourself… especially when she's looking to you for guidance on how she can recover?"

Something indeterminate flickered in House's eyes. He slowly closed his eyelids, appearing to fight back tears. Time passed slowly, as Wilson and Cuddy leaned toward him, waiting, hovering, watching the measured, shuddery rise and fall of House's chest. Waiting for what, they didn't know. Desperate to release some of her anxious energy, Cuddy grabbed Wilson's right upper arm, clutching it tightly, her polished nails digging sharply into his bicep in a move reminiscent of the way she'd clutched his arm at the police station.

"I can't win," House finally whispered, defeated. "No matter what I do, someone gets hurt. Just like before. It doesn't matter what I do. I can't win."

No one said anything for a long minute. Wilson heard Cuddy sniff, and saw her shoulders tremble. He let go of House's face, reached across House's body and laid a soothing hand on Cuddy's back, allowing it to rest there for a moment, warm and reassuring, until she regained control. Finally, he took a deep breath and ventured forth. "Yeah," he said. "Pretty much. Sucks, doesn't it?"

"It will hurt us more to lose you," interjected Cuddy, a lump lodged in her throat as emotion threatened to overwhelm her again. "I-I… I can't… _I can't_… lose you… not again."

As they focused on House's tormented face, they saw a solitary tear spill over and run down the crevices of his face. Finally, House breathed in deeply and spoke again, averting his eyes.

"I wanted to kill him," he mumbled. "When I saw what he'd done to Rainie, I wanted to go into his room and strangle him. Hit him. Electrocute him. Push as many drugs into his system as I could. I wanted him dead." Then his voice got so quiet they could barely hear him. "But first, I wanted him to feel pain and fear—I wanted him to suffer."

Wilson leaned closer. "You what?" he asked, unintentionally sounding as if he were horrified by what House had confessed. Reacting to the tone of Wilson's voice, House recoiled. _Damn it_, thought Wilson as he realized how House had taken his question. "No, no," he said apologetically. "Sorry… it was your voice… it's soft… I didn't hear…." House's gaze drifted over his friend's troubled features. Clearly doubtful, he ultimately seemed to accept this version of Wilson's response and settled down again.

"I… I was plotting it out. How to cause him pain. I know how to do it—I've… I've felt it. The underarms, inside of the elbows, the waist, bottoms of feet, the neck. And fear… magnifies it. I wanted him so terrified of what might happen that the actual pain would be a relief… and that death would be liberation." As they listened, Wilson and Cuddy heard the shift as House drifted into his own tortured memories. "I know it so well… that moment when you dream of a world without pain or fear. Dying seems like a triumph." He looked up at them again, his blue eyes dark with some indeterminate emotion. Then, shaking it off and changing the subject, he pleaded again, "Why couldn't you let me die? Why did you have to bring me back?"

Near Wilson's right ear, Cuddy swallowed a hiccupped sob. Suddenly, Wilson got it. _He was afraid of turning into a monster… of becoming like Thompson._ Horrified, he asked softly, "First, do no harm?" When House slowly nodded, afraid to meet his eyes, Wilson wasn't surprised.

"So that's what was going on in your head? You decided to kill yourself to keep from torturing a patient?"

Again, House nodded.

"But House—don't you think we all feel that way—don't you think we've all wanted to kill him?" House's breath caught. It was apparent he'd thought he was alone in his desire to do in Michael Tritter. "Really, House. We've all had those feelings." At first, House seemed astonished. Then his face settled back into an impervious mask.

"There's a difference," he said weakly, exhaustion slowing his words and making even his slight movements sluggish. "I was… I was actually going to do it. The anger… I-I… couldn't stop the anger…" his words drifted off, leaving no doubt about how he had come to the conclusion he had.

Wilson leaned forward, his upper body covering House's as he laid his right hand comfortingly on House's arm. House tensed for a moment, and then relaxed, as if resigned to his fate.

"Look, House," Wilson said, forcing House to meet his gaze. "I've been waiting for you to get angry for more than a year." House's brow furrowed and he shook his head, baffled. "Yeah, really. You have so much to be angry about, and yet you've never allowed those feelings out. Frankly, I'm not surprised that when it happened you were overwhelmed. You had every right to feel angry with Tritter for what he's done to you this week. And once it finally—finally—came to the surface, it was bound to engulf you. You've held it in for so long…"

When Cuddy spoke up, Wilson jumped; for a second, he'd almost forgotten she was in the room. "House, listen to Wilson on this. He's right. That anger was bound to come out eventually, and Tritter just kept at you, it's no wonder you finally got angry."

Wilson caught the slight flicker of House's eyelids and the convulsive gulp as he swallowed his emotions. "You need to talk to Jacey Liu about this, House. It's her job to help you. Don't shut people out… especially not when your emotions are so strong. We want to help. You don't have to go through it all alone… not anymore."

That did it. House's shoulders began to quiver above Wilson's crooked arm as he let go, huge heaving, wracking sobs overtaking him. Wilson leaned forward again, wrapping his other arm around his frail friend. To his right, Wilson sensed rather than felt Cuddy as she moved closer, touching as much of House as she could reach. After a couple of minutes, House settled down again. When Wilson pulled back, he saw tears streaming down Cuddy's face. As he looked down, he realized that the psychedelic patterns spattering his sleeve came from his own tears.

Suddenly, Wilson was hit by a revelation. "House, think about this a minute. What finally made you angry? It was when Tritter hurt Rainie, right?" House nodded slowly, seeming to be unsure of where Wilson was going. "You got angry on her behalf. But instead of having a healthy outlet for your anger, you were so overwhelmed by it, you turned it inward, where it wasn't going to do anyone, least of all Rainie, any good."

Again, House nodded. Some combination of Thompson's torture and House's own inherent lack of self-worth kept him from the righteous indignation he had every right to feel.

"Look, one of these days you need to get angry on your own behalf. I know, I know. I'm lecturing." A hint of a smile crossed House's face. "But listen to me on this: Now that the anger floodgates are open, all that anger is going to pour out. Tell it to Jacey. Tell it to me. Tell it to Cuddy. I bet even Chase and Foreman and Devi would do anything they could to help when that happens. Okay?" He couldn't read the expression on House's face. _Could it be… fear?_

"We shouldn't have given you this case," admitted Cuddy finally, interrupting. "It's our fault… _my_ fault… not yours. There was no way this was going to end well. You've handled yourself admirably until now, but it's not worth it. The man is crazy—probably always was. I'm… I'm sorry we didn't see it eight years ago. This never should have happened." Cuddy dropped her administrative mask long enough to allow him to see her personal sense of responsibility for the way the situation had turned out.

After a pause, House sighed. "Doesn't matter," he said, avoiding Wilson's gaze. "Doesn't matter if it shouldn't have happened. It _did_…"

Scrutinizing House's agonized face, Wilson's stomach clenched. The last few days were like a Greek tragedy. Given the personalities involved, it seemed almost as if this trajectory was predestined.

"He's not worth it," said a loud voice from the back of the room. Speaking stridently and unexpectedly, Foreman stood in the doorway, where he had obviously been observing and listening for some time. "For all I care, let him die in his own filth." Paling, House stared at him as if expecting Foreman to march forward and slap him again.

"Foreman!" hissed Cuddy, pivoting furiously to face him. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Foreman gasped as his jaw literally dropped. "No… no… _no_! Not _you_, House. Tritter. _Tritter's _not worth it." House's eyes closed, and a few relieved tears slid out from under his lashes. He inhaled a suppressed sob.

Stepping forward, Foreman gently touched an exposed part of his boss's arm. "Hey, man, _you're _worth so much more than he is. Let it go. Let someone else treat the man."

Once House swallowed his tears, he slowly shook his head. "No," he said despondently. "It's too late. If you had to bring me back, then I have to see this through—one way or the other."

"Does that mean you won't try… try to k-k-k… try something like this again?" asked Wilson tentatively, hopefully, as he intently scrutinized his friend's face for answers. "We… I…"

House shrugged, looking again toward the wall.

Wilson found himself wanting to argue with House, to tell him that Tritter was no longer any of his responsibility, but he knew from years of experience there was no reasoning with House once his mind was made up. If House had decided that he had to continue to treat Tritter, nothing was going to alter his decision. And if House had decided to kill himself, then there was no way to stop him… Wilson couldn't let his mind go where that thought was taking him.

Interestingly, Cuddy didn't seem to have come to the same conclusion about House continuing with the case. "House, you may not have that choice. Given what you've just tried to do, I don't know that you're competent to treat him. You're certainly not objective, which I know you prize above almost everything else."

For a fraction of a second, House looked relieved, as if an SUV had been lifted from his chest. Then he half-closed his eyes again, and set his mouth in a grim line. "Sounds nice," he mumbled, slipping back into an affectless monotone as he continued to stare lifelessly at the wall. "But we all know you'll have to come to me eventually if you want the answer. I had my chance to get out of it, but you…" He looked accusingly from Cuddy to Wilson to Foreman. "…_you_ interfered." He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his face set in angry lines.

"Look, House," said Foreman, who had been watching House's reactions closely, "whether you like it or not, we want you here with us for a long time. We don't want you to die. Tritter, yes. You, no. Got that?" He took a quick breath, hearing what he was actually saying only as the words left his mouth. How could he ever have believed House was a cold man simply interested in solving a puzzle? Not only was House someone who would allow himself to be tortured to save the people he cared about, but he was someone who would rather kill himself than harm a patient, even one as malicious and twisted as Michael Tritter.

House raised his shoulders in another noncommittal shrug, his head rolling to one side in a show of indifference.

Having tried once to be the voice of logic in this impossible situation, Cuddy now decided to take a different approach. "Let us work with you, let us take some of the burden… and for God's sake, let us try to protect you—and Rainie—better," she said. "Look, I can't have my best doctor offing himself just because his patient's crazy and his boss is an idiot."

A suggestion of a smile crossed House's ravaged face. Then the abrupt nod they all knew so well, the nod that signaled acceptance on his part.

"Good," said Cuddy. "Glad that's settled." Even though they all knew it wasn't.


	21. Chapter 21: Channeling Anger

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** While House remains under suicide watch, Rainie discovers the truth.

**Chapter 21:**** Channeling Anger**

The good news, they realized after running a few neurological tests — and it was very good news — was that House appeared not to have suffered any brain damage from his suicide attempt. The bad news was that because House had apparently not decided definitively that he wanted to live, the five doctors would have to continue keeping a close eye on him for the immediate future. They set up a rotating schedule, with Chase and Foreman each taking a night shift, because their schedules were more flexible, Devi taking the early morning, and Wilson and Cuddy alternating in the afternoon.

Chase took charge of scheduling House's pain medications, with Wilson gladly relinquishing prescribing privileges because it would allow him more time to tend to House's emotional needs. Chase was determined to treat House's extreme pain fairly, but keep strict control over his narcotics for the time being, not leaving room for any temptation.

Jacey Liu planned to meet with House twice a day, to address the anger and depression that had prompted his attempted self-destruction. Dr. Liu informed Cuddy that there were actually no legal repercussions against a patient who attempted suicide, which relieved all five doctors who felt they're put their careers on the line to protect House. She did agree with them, however, that it made sense to keep the information to themselves, that it would not be helpful to House's recovery if too many people were aware of what had happened or why.

Beginning from the moment that House had so abruptly left her room, Rainie knew something was very wrong. Unlike the way he behaved with most of the people around him, House had always treated Rainie tenderly, probably because of their mutual ordeal; this had been one of the few times his behavior was painful to her, and it was the unique occasion in which he did not return later to smooth things over.

Once Evan got her calmed down, she waited. And waited. And waited. But no news and no House. After nearly a day of staring vacantly at the walls and ceiling, Rainie Adler continued to remain silent. She had barely slept in the past 24 hours and had not been able to keep any food down.

Although she was the one who had been attacked, her most recent trauma was far too much like Greg's own horrific history. Her statement to Joe Roberts appeared to have triggered something dark and unpleasant in House, and even through her own anguish, she was perceptive enough to pick up on it.

During the night and the following day, an occasional nurse or aide wandered in to check her vitals, bring her food or adjust her covers, but she hadn't seen House, or Wilson, or even any of House's team in hours. Evan had shown up several times during the preceding 24 hours, as had Jacey Liu. But no Greg.

Almost a day after House's abrupt escape from her room, Wilson slid open the door to Rainie Adler's room and quietly entered. Still deep in her own agony, Rainie slowly turned her gaze from the wall and watched him tiptoe across the floor toward her. Examining his distracted countenance thoroughly, she nodded thoughtfully to herself. Her haunted eyes stared intently into his own.

"He's not coming back," she said, the first words she'd spoken in nearly 24 hours, her contralto voice low and shaky in her throat. It was a statement, not a question.

"N-noooo…," Wilson stuttered slowly, hoping it wasn't true. "That's not it."

Her direct gaze began to make him squirm uncomfortably. She seemed to be sizing him up, as she tried to get at the truth, prying beneath the façade he'd put on before entering the room. "No? What then?"

He didn't want to tell her—he hadn't intended to tell her—he didn't think she could possibly be strong enough to hear what had happened. And besides, he'd promised the others not to tell. But he hadn't prepared himself, hadn't come up with a plausible alternative to explain why House had disappeared and hadn't returned. He tried to bluff his way through. Bluffing was not his strong suit, and he should know by now that Rainie, the consummate journalist, had a highly attuned bullshit meter.

"You know Greg," he ventured, trying to impose a lightness to his tone that he didn't feel. "He's not great at dealing with his feelings. He needs to sort this out for himself."

"He couldn't stand it."

That at least had the virtue of being true. Wilson nodded.

"So what did he do?"

Wilson feigned confusion as his heart began to beat wildly. Had she figured it out? How could she have? "I'm sorry…? What do you m…?"

Rainie interrupted him, her heart beginning to beat wildly. "Oh, come off it, James. Your face betrays you. Something's happened." She appeared to be on the verge of tears.

Wilson's countenance collapsed. Damn the woman. While he couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth, he also couldn't think of anything else to say. So he just stood there, his emotions reflected starkly on his face.

"He tried to kill Tritter, didn't he?" With her journalistic persistence and innate stubbornness, she wouldn't let him off the hook, and now she was venturing far too close.

His eyelids flickered, and he glanced away involuntarily. Sighing, he tried once more to avoid telling the whole truth and nothing but. Perhaps part of the truth would be sufficient.

"Not exactly. He thought about it," he replied. "He was angry enough to do it, but no… he didn't actually try." Maybe that would be enough. And again, it was true, so he didn't have to attempt a lie he knew she'd see through.

Watching her process his words, Wilson prayed. It was an impossible situation. First, do no harm… and he didn't want to harm her by telling her that the man who had paved the way for her own recovery had been unable to stay steady for her, that he'd found his own emotions so insidious that he'd tried to end his life.

A long silence ensued as the two watched each other think. Finally, Rainie broke the silence.

"I-Is he coming back?"

Unsettled, Wilson watched her bruised and swollen eyes fill with tears. How could she be so attached to his broken friend that the thought of not seeing him again would bring her to this? Suddenly, the dam broke, and he couldn't help himself, despite his promise to Cuddy and the others to keep the truth inside their circle.

"I'm sorry, Rainie," he started, his own eyes beginning to tear up as his words spilled out. "He locked himself in his office and took an overdose of Dilaudid." At her horrified look, he quickly added, "We got to him, though… barely in time."

He could see her chest rise and fall as she absorbed the news. Her eyes flickered past him, to the wall, to the ceiling, across the room, and then, back to him.

After regaining control of herself, she exhaled and asked, "Where is he? I want to see him."

Wilson shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said. "He's not… he's not in a good place emotionally."

"Well, duh," said Rainie with her usual bluntness, seeming to gather strength as she spoke. "After trying to kill himself, I wouldn't think he would be. Don't underestimate me, James. And don't patronize me. You know how that pushes my buttons."

Stunned, Wilson just stared at the small, battered figure in the bed. Her response was completely unanticipated. He'd expected her to be shattered, but instead she seemed, if anything, annoyed. As an oncologist, he was used to gently breaking bad news, couching it in carefully worded platitudes to ease the blow. But as a journalist, Rainie Adler dealt in the hard truth about people and their behavior, and maybe hearing the blunt truth was what she needed so she could process and understand what was happening around her… not dissimilar to the way House probed for the unvarnished truth in medicine.

"I…I didn't mean to be condescending," he mumbled. "I… I-I just didn't know if I should tell you."

"You did the right thing," she answered, trying to sit up straighter in the bed. "Give me the details. I need to know… I _need_ to know what happened."

Wilson came closer, gently placing his hand on her shoulder in what he knew from experience was a reassuring manner. She continued to make disconcertingly direct eye contact, and his resolve crumbled. He told her how they'd found him, and what he'd said. Occasionally, she interrupted with astute questions — how many pills had he taken? Were they sure there were no physical aftereffects? How did he seem to be doing now? Was he going to try again?

Finally, after about 20 minutes, she seemed to have made up her mind about something. "Take me to him," she said, pushing herself up, gasping a moment in pain before dangling her legs off the edge of the bed. "Now."

Realizing he was standing there with his mouth hanging open, Wilson snapped his jaw shut and nodded. _What's the worst that could happen?_ he thought, then the doctor in him took over. "You shouldn't… you need to rest."

Again, she sized him up. "I'll rest later," she said. She waited, as Wilson stood, frozen. "Come on, James! If you won't help me, then dammit, I'll crawl there." At that, she began sliding off the bed, her bruised and deformed legs clearly unable to carry even her slight weight.

Wilson reached out a hand in the universal symbol for _stop_. She paused, but continued to stare him down. Based on the past few months of observing her climb out of the pit of despair, he had every reason to believe her when she said she'd crawl to his room. "Wait… please, wait. I'll help you. Let me get a wheelchair," he stuttered. "I'll be right back."

Half expecting to find her slithering on the floor when he returned two minutes later, he was pleasantly surprised to find her still sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back so her arms supported her slight weight. After helping her into the chair, he took a deep breath and rolled her down the hall.

When Wilson wheeled Rainie into House's room just a few doors down the hall from her own, they found Devi sitting quietly in the corner, reading a journal. House was lying on his bed staring blankly at the wall, mirroring what Rainie herself had been doing only an hour earlier.

"Devi, could you give us a few minutes?" Wilson asked, gesturing toward the door. Nodding, Devi quietly slipped out of the room and slid the door shut behind her.

Once she'd left, Rainie inched closer to the bed. "You idiot!" she called out abruptly, startling House out of his reveries. His face jerked toward her, registering surprise. "You selfish son-of-a-bitch! How dare you!"

He looked past her to Wilson, who shrugged as if to say, _What can I say?_ Wilson saw House's expression transform from indifference to anxiety to irritation.

"You told her!" House yelled at him suddenly, looking betrayed. "How could you tell her?"

As Wilson tried to figure out the best way to respond, Rainie jumped in. "Not his fault!" she stormed, on a roll. "I wormed it out of him. And don't change the subject, you moron! How could you do this? How _could _you?"

Now, he was angry. "Oh, so _I'm _selfish?" he asked, twisting in the bed to face her more directly. "It's none of your fucking business! None of your business what I decide to do with my own life!" He glared at her. "You're only angry because I yanked your lifeline out of the way."

She paused, considering, as Wilson watched on, almost bemused—feeling a bizarre sense of glee as the two of them hashed it out. Rainie Adler pissed off was a wonderful sight, and Wilson was hit with the realization that she might be the only one who could actually get through to House right now. Everyone else—Wilson included—was tip-toeing, too afraid of upsetting House to confront him. Rainie, whose experiences were so like House's, was the only one brave enough to get angry with him, and the only one whose anger didn't terrify him.

"Yeah, damn straight. My lifeline… huh! I've been looking up to you, knowing that if you could recover, maybe — just maybe — I could, too. Boy, did I pick the wrong role model!"

His eyes turned cold. "You sure did! I don't need that kind of responsibility. I'm not your fucking guidance counselor!"

She flushed red, rolling closer to his bed and plopping one bandaged hand on the covers near his feet. Furious, he kicked her hand off the bed, ignoring her wince of pain, and started to turn back to the wall.

"Oh, no you don't!" she snapped, rolling forward, grabbing his arm and yanking him back around. "You don't get off that easily! What were you thinking?"

For a moment, Wilson thought House was actually going to strike her, and he moved forward rapidly to intervene if House decided to lash out. But instead of becoming violent, House shrugged her hand off of him as the two glared at each other for what seemed like five minutes… and then, unexpectedly, House's shoulders drooped in defeat.

When he spoke, his voice was low and full of emotional pain. "I-I was so angry, Rainie… I was just so angry."

This time when she placed her hand on his arm, he allowed it to remain. "Look, you bozo," she said affectionately, her voice adjusting to his change in mood, becoming soft and sympathetic. "Let's be constructive about this. Instead of killing yourself, why not use that anger to diagnose the bastard? Then let's take what I overheard, plus the evidence that Evan and I have collected, to get him thrown away like the trash he is. That way, you retain your standing as a world-class diagnostician and at the same time, we both get our revenge for what he's done. Does that work for you? `Cause it sure works for me."

For a moment, Wilson thought House hadn't understood what she'd said, that his mind was so disrupted by emotion and drugs that he couldn't comprehend her words. Then, all of a sudden, he began to laugh, a deep, throaty chortle that erupted into a full-blown guffaw, the kind Wilson hadn't heard from his friend since long before his imprisonment, perhaps since before the leg injury so many years ago.

To Wilson's utter astonishment, House turned toward her, nodding his head as he muttered in her ear: "Yes… yes, okay. Works for me." He looked up at Wilson, who once again stood with his mouth open. "Get my team in here. And see if you can find a whiteboard."

It was several hours more before Wilson collected his wits enough to remember his conversation with Tritter the day before. As soon as he did, he contacted Joe Roberts at the FBI to tell him about Tritter's apparent confession. So much had happened in the interim that he was completely floored to find out that the FBI had had enough time to identify and round up the four punks who had trashed House's home and attacked Rainie. When confronted by a team of FBI agents, two of them readily confessed, implicating Tritter in order to gain plea bargains. The other two seemed ready to crack at any moment.

"Michael Tritter," said Joe Roberts half an hour after speaking to Wilson, as he fastened one handcuff around Tritter's right wrist with a satisfying _snick _as the other snapped around the bedrail, "you are under arrest for conspiracy and abetting in the commission of criminal acts, in the breaking & entering, and vandalism, of the home of Gregory House, and in the rape and aggravated assault of Rainie Adler. In addition, you are charged with 24 counts of police misconduct in the cases of Gregory House, David Amberson and 22 others, over a twelve-year period. You have the right to remain silent…"

"B-but you're FBI," sputtered Tritter, interrupting the reading of his Miranda rights. "What are you doing here?"

Roberts regarded him coldly, vaguely fascinated that Tritter neither denied nor admitted the charges, but went right to the jurisdictional question. "Because, Det. Tritter, anything criminal pertaining to Dr. House and Ms. Adler is considered a federal matter. Plus one of your young goons crossed state lines to do your dirty work for you, which also makes it federal." He paused for effect. "In addition, we have considerable evidence that the Princeton Police Department may be fraught with corruption; the FBI was brought in by Princeton Chief of Police Durante to investigate. I have a warrant here from Judge Minton to search your belongings and your home and office for evidence."

Tritter just blinked at him. He was screwed and he knew it.

After Roberts finished reading Tritter his rights, he informed the policeman that, given his medical situation, he would remain at PPTH, handcuffed to his bed, until such time as he was well enough to stand trial.

An FBI agent was posted outside Tritter's room, allowing no one access to the detective without an okay from the FBI and without an FBI agent present, effectively ensuring that Tritter would be unable to plan anything else that might endanger House while the doctor got back to the work at hand—diagnosing Tritter's rapidly deteriorating condition.


	22. Chapter 22: Too Late

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** _What was it? What was the answer? _House _knew _it, but he just couldn't get at it. The sooner he got the answer, the sooner treatment could start and the sooner they could all be done with Michael Tritter, once and for all.

**Chapter 22:**** Too Late**

Waking up after a few hours' sleep, House glared impatiently at the whiteboard. He was close; he could feel it. Years of understanding his own mental processes gave him almost a sixth sense when he was nearing a viable diagnosis. He recognized the symptoms: his gut was telling him that his mind had already figured it out. But how to get the information from those dark recesses in his brain to a place where he could access it?

Hoisting himself up into a sitting position, his left foot met resistance—Chase's head. Throughout the night, he'd pushed his team to find the answer, and now Chase had fallen asleep face-first onto the end of House's bed. As House's foot met his head, a startled Chase jerked upright, looked befuddled for a moment and then nose-dived back into the mattress.

_What was it? What was the answer? _House _knew _it, but he just couldn't get at it. The sooner he got the answer, the sooner treatment could start and the sooner they could all be done with Michael Tritter, once and for all.

"Anything new?" he asked brusquely, noticing Devi awake on the other side of the room.

Devi, who sat in the corner surrounded by journals, looked over at him, not quite meeting his eyes and hating herself for it. "He's presenting with a couple more symptoms," she said, discouraged, "but we still haven't come up with it."

"Okay, then," said House, sounding more like himself. "Let's start fresh. Erase the whole board, and put everything up again in a different order." Anything to shake things up and maybe—_maybe_—give him the clue he needed to jar the answer into place.

Shoving herself off the sofa with the palms of her hands, Devi stood up and trudged to the whiteboard, giving House and his hospital bed a wide berth. Her brain was tired, and so was her body, after days of fruitless searching and nights when all she could dream about was Michael Tritter and his increasing paranoia and threats against House. This last week had been nightmarish; she hoped never to experience anything quite this awful ever again. If anything, though, her respect for House had increased—how he could get back to diagnosing the bastard after everything that had happened was beyond her.

Wiping the board clean, she looked to House before writing anything. Chase had decided to rejoin the living, and was rubbing his sleep-puffed eyes.

"Just spit them out," said House, meaning the symptoms. "Let's look at everything. If we have to, we'll re-do all the tests, retake the patient history, reexamine the reports from all the other clinics and doctors he's seen… let's ask the questions we haven't asked before. Somewhere in all of this, people, is the answer, and we're going to find it. Go."

_Diarrhea_

_Weight loss_

_Arrhythmia_

_Abdominal cramps_

_Fever_

_Joint pain_

_Nausea_

_Fatigue_

_Weakness_

_Anemia_

_Seizure_

_Cough_

_Enlarged lymph nodes_

_Nystagmus_

"Anything new?" asked House, looking from Chase to Devi and back again. When he got no response, he huffed in frustration. "Okay, let's try again. I want a new patient history. Chase, this time I want _you _to interview the patient—maybe you'll pick up on something Raja missed. I want details. Follow up on everything, ask every conceivable question. If he's having digestive issues, then maybe he's got more digestive symptoms… ones we haven't thought to ask about. Find out what he's not telling us."

He turned to Devi. "Raja, I want you to go through all the tests that have been done, both here and elsewhere, and collate the material in a chart, detailing when the test was done, who did it and what the results were. Give me a timeline of the progression of the illness."

She nodded, returning to the sofa and grabbing the pile of folders from where they had begun to spill off onto the floor.

"Oh, and get Foreman in here. We've got a couple of neurological symptoms and I need him here to analyze them."

"_Uhhh_," said Devi, feeling stupid for a moment. "I thought that now you were back on the case that… he was, well… only supposed to be here… Dr. Cuddy's memo said he was only allowed here on Tuesdays and Thursdays… when you're out."

"I don't give a flying crap about what Cuddy's memo said," replied House forcefully. "Foreman's a neurologist, we've got neurological symptoms, and we can't overlook anything at this point. I'll deal with Cuddy—you call Foreman and drag him away from his action film festival or his hooker, and get his ass in here."

While Devi stared in disbelief at the fierceness of House's response, Chase felt a slow smile creep over his face, seeing once again a glimmer of the outrageous man he once knew.

With Cuddy's permission, House was allowed to leave his hospital room and return to his office to work. He and the team went over everything again and again and again, working until after midnight that night, and up early the next morning. House drove them hard, talking it through until what little voice he had gave out, pushing until even Devi snapped back at him. But he was determined to find that answer.

"Okay, where are we?" he asked for the umpteenth time.

"Nowhere," said Chase. "Redid everything."

"Got a few new clues from the patient history, but nothing definitive," said Devi.

"I'm waiting on the final results of the nerve conduction study," said Foreman, sounding more subdued than usual. He'd screwed up so many times in the past few days, he was unsure if his being there was actually helpful or not. He spoke quietly and moved gently around House, but to his surprise, House behaved unselfconsciously around him, as if nothing had happened between them.

Finally, House huffed in frustration, the long hours and taxing mental work adding considerably to his pain level. But somehow, despite his fatigue, his emotions had settled, his anger diffused once Rainie had hit on a plan of action, and once Tritter had been arrested. Now, he just needed to finish this off, and then rest, sleep, at home for a few days—oh, well, home was out—he shoved the problem of where to live out of his head—but he wasn't going to give his body the satisfaction of giving in just yet. If there was one thing he had learned during those long years of torture, it's that he was capable of handling much more than he would ever have dreamed. So a little exhaustion and discomfort were not going to deter him. But a really hot bath and some more sleep would feel awfully good right now.

He shook his head. "Take a break. We're not getting anywhere. Go have lunch, step outside and clear the cobwebs out of your brains. We'll meet back here at 3."

Pushing off from the head of the table, he allowed his wheelchair to roll backward a few feet before he gripped the big wheels and turned himself around and rolled back into the sanctuary of his office, shoving the door shut as he passed by. Foreman followed him for a few steps, his fear of leaving House alone apparent on his face.

"I think it's okay," said Devi, not quite sure why she believed it but knowing that she did.

Chase nodded his agreement. "I think he just needed an outlet for all his anger. Work provides it."

Foreman shrugged his agreement, stopping in his tracks and then pivoting back toward the others.

Once inside his office, House shut his eyes for a moment before reaching for the phone and pressing Wilson's extension. Wilson answered a little too rapidly, as if anticipating another crisis—which, given the last few days, was not all that unreasonable.

"House! What is it?"

"Lunch, I hope," came the reply.

House heard Wilson sigh with relief.

"Sure. Be right there."

Unable to get enough perspective to see through Wilson's eyes, House could only marvel at the man's ongoing care and patience. He knew that underneath that oh-so pleasant exterior, Wilson harbored a manipulative and sometimes even cruel streak, which had made him an interesting companion. But Wilson had sublimated those traits in order to take care of House. That kind of care was so far removed from anything House imagined himself capable of that he found Wilson's behavior a wonder, never realizing that he himself was doing much the same kind of thing now for Rainie… and never really considering how Wilson felt about the sacrifice he, House, had made to ensure Wilson's safety.

For House, his willingness to abide by Thompson's insane contract only made mathematical sense—his life in forfeit for seven others. But the idea of spending every waking hour focused on the health and wellbeing of another… House couldn't fathom it. It made him uncomfortable, and was one of the things he'd considered when he'd taken the Dilaudid—that if he were gone, perhaps Wilson might be able to pick up the pieces of his own life and move on.

Devi pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes as she flipped through her file on Tritter's case, fat with test results and all those "C.Y.A." notations Chase had insisted upon. Her brain was so tired, she couldn't think anymore; her eyes were red and itchy with exhaustion—the words had begun to blur on the page.

House watched her closely, as if trying to reach into her mind for the answer. Twice he caught her nodding off, her head slowly drooping forward before she snapped it back up and tried again.

"That's enough," he finally said. "Go home, eat a good dinner, drink something that burns your throat on the way down, fuck someone, sleep as long as you can, and then we'll go at it again tomorrow. We're not getting anywhere like this."

Chase and Foreman practically jumped up, eager to leave as quickly as possible before House changed his mind. Devi took a little longer, gathering her notes and beginning to stuff them into the oversized bag she had hung on the coat tree by the door.

"Nope," said House, reaching out his hand. "Leave that here. I want you to turn your mind off—go watch TV, play a game. Do something different. Sometimes the answers come only when we step completely away from the problem."

Nodding in slow motion, Devi reluctantly put the folder back down on the conference room table and stumbled out of the room. Once he was sure she was gone, House picked up the folder and slipped it into his backpack before wheeling himself back to his hospital room.

An hour later, he convinced an orderly to bring a piano to the room. After he ate, he played the piano for 45 minutes, then went down the hall to check on Rainie, who seemed to be involved in some complex project with Evan that she didn't feel like sharing. Returning to his own room, he dozed on the sofa, the television flickering mutely across the room. After a couple of hours, he awoke, slightly refreshed, and pulled out Devi's folder.

The first thing to catch his eye was a green Post-It note, stuck to one of the pages. "T: 'How do you think I'm doing? You people are purposely messing around with me, withholding treatment and making me worse. And it's all the fault of that drug-addicted junkie you work for! It's just as I suspected—he's trying to get even with me. I won't let him get away with it. I'll make sure of it!'"

Frowning, he began going through the folder, from back to front—the oldest notations to the most recent—looking for Devi's handwritten notes recording her conversations with Tritter. A bitter smile crept onto his face. Another symptom, one no one had thought to mention, perhaps out of some misguided attempt to keep from upsetting him. It had been there all along, and it explained a great deal.

Rainie and Evan spent a few hours with FBI Agent Joe Roberts, turning over their interview notes and answering Roberts' questions about the people who had run afoul of Michael Tritter over the years. And now, Rainie felt safe enough to explain in detail just exactly what had happened in the duplex, giving a much more complete statement than she had before. Evan held her as she talked; they both cried. A lot. But once she had finished with her statement, Rainie found she did, indeed, feel better.

Although her injuries kept her in a lot of pain and the drugs clouded her mind somewhat, Rainie noticed that trying to focus her mind on a project made the pain recede and kept the depression at bay. So when Roberts left the room, Rainie spoke again to Evan about the two projects she had in mind. After hearing her out the day before, Evan had quietly assented to help in both endeavors. One he'd been expecting: She asked him to help her recruit the people Tritter had persecuted into testifying against him in court. The other came as a surprise, and it was going to take fast work and a lot of money. Fortunately, thanks to the settlements from the state and Thompson's estate, Rainie had almost unlimited funds, and Evan agreed to take a few days off to supervise the project.

After Evan left the room, all of Rainie's energy seemed to go with him. She was suddenly drained, nearly unable to keep her head up. She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, turned her head and went immediately to sleep.

Michael Tritter couldn't stay awake. Once again, his eyes drifted shut and he began to dream, dream about House—House as he was after Tritter knew him, broken and battered, but somehow never defeated.

Feeling as if he'd slept for hours, Tritter awoke and grimaced at the bedside clock, startled to discover that he'd nodded off for only a few minutes. In his mind, as if branded there, he saw House's damaged face.

Something about the eyes haunted him. Deep blue eyes, formerly full of contempt, now filled with pain and anguish. As much as Tritter had wanted to see House brought to his knees, something about those eyes made him think that not even that bastard had deserved what had happened to him… and perhaps—Tritter hated to admit it, especially given his own upcoming arraignment—House hadn't even deserved what Tritter had done to him eight years ago.

He thought back to when he'd seen that House on the nightly news, and how he'd had to look away, how some miniscule, buried part of him winced to see that spirit broken, even while the rest of him exulted.

Early the next morning, feeling slightly more rested, House wheeled himself up to the whiteboard in the conference room. Grabbing a marker, he added two symptoms, his shaky handwriting standing out in stark contrast to Devi's firm script. Too bad everyone's emotions had gotten tangled up in the diagnosis or they might have gotten this close to finding the answer sooner. Maybe they could have figured it out before all the damage was done.

Getting himself a cup of coffee and balancing it precariously on the arm of the chair, he rolled up to the table, pulling a journal from his backpack. A few minutes later, satisfied, he inched over to the laptop and double-checked his findings online.

Just as he finished, Devi walked in, looking much better than she had the night before. She noticed his now-empty cup, and without saying anything, removed it from the table, refilled it from the carafe and returned it to him. He nodded his thanks.

Foreman was the next to arrive, carrying a full box of donuts, followed by Chase, who had bagels. Once they were all settled, contentedly munching on the circular breakfast treat of their choice, House drew their attention to the whiteboard.

"New symptoms, people," he said, waving his arm in that direction. "Actually, old ones—we just never realized they were symptoms. Increasing irritability and paranoia, possible dementia. What does that tell us? Foreman, this is your jurisdiction, I believe."

Self-consciously, Foreman reexamined the words on the board, trying to fit them together. "Might be celiac sprue," he offered. "We should do a liver enzyme test and check his alkaline phosphatase level."

"Okay. Go. Do. Report back."

Positive he was headed in the right direction, finally, House went back to his office, closing the door behind him and turning off the lights. Levering himself from the wheelchair to the much-more-comfortable Eames chair and ottoman, he turned on the CD player to his right and closed his eyes as he melted into Bach.

"Oh, my God!" yelled Johnnie Russo over the sound of hammering and drilling. "Is that _blood_?"

"Yeah, I guess," said his boss, a tall, muscular, dark-haired man named Anthony DiPalma, who shrugged his shoulders, as if finding blood smeared on the walls was an everyday occurrence. "Just scrub some bleach on it, make sure it's all gone, wait till it dries, then repaint over it. And keep moving. We don't got much time to finish this job… and they're payin' us enough dough to send your kids to camp this summer. Hell, probably enough to send `em to college."

Exhausted, House slept in his chair from four o'clock until 8:30, when he finally wheeled himself back to his room, where he found Wilson and Rainie quietly sharing a meal. Wilson sat on the bedside chair, chewing, an empty plate balanced precariously on his lap. "Sorry—forgot to set the DVR I brought from home, so you didn't get _General Hospital,_" he said, swallowing the last bite of the grilled chicken sandwich he'd picked up downstairs. "Oh, and you missed out—the cafeteria grill just closed." Then, with a smug grin, he added, "Sometimes bad things happen when you wait too long."

"Hmmmm," said House, absently. "You may have something there." All of a sudden, his eyes lit up, and a sly smile crossed his face. Wilson recognized the indicator—House had found the answer. Grabbing the wheels of the chair, House spun himself around. "Pay attention," he said. "Fun's about to start." Digging around in his backpack, he pulled out his cell phone.


	23. Chapter 23: Diagnosis

**Title:** Patient

**Author:** zeppomarx

**Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority's _Exigencies _and zeppomarx's _A Gentle Knock at the Door_.

**Summary:** House's minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of _A Gentle Knock at the Door_. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep's intense and angsty _The Contract_, and Priority's sequel _Exigencies_.

**Thanks: **To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to _A Gentle Knock on the Door_, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.

**Warnings, etc.:** Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.

**Disclaimers: **You know the drill. Don't own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.

**This Chapter:** Across the room, it was hard for Wilson and Rainie not to hear the triumph in House's voice. When he snapped the phone shut, he found himself the object of their attention.

**Chapter 23:**** Diagnosis**

"Chase. It's House. I've got it. Yes, really. It's Whipple. Uh-huh. Idiot was so sure I was going to want retribution, he put off coming here until it had progressed to the point of no return." He listened for a moment. "Exactly. He waited too long. No, don't tell him yet. No, Chase!" A pause. "I said _no_! I want all the i's dotted and the t's crossed before we give him the news. He's not going to take this well, and I don't want any repercussions. What? No. The tests can wait till morning. Any way you look at it, he's cooked. Another few hours aren't going to matter to a man who has killed himself through his own hubris."

Across the room, it was hard for Wilson and Rainie not to hear the triumph in House's voice. When he snapped the phone shut, he found himself the object of their attention.

"What?" he said, the sly smile still plastered on his fractured face. "I told you irony's a bitch, didn't I? If Tritter had just stuck around when Devi tried to treat him months ago, we probably would have caught it in time. But he was so sure I'd want revenge, he put it off. Paranoia. That was the symptom we missed—just figured it was Tritter's natural state of being. Who knows? Maybe it was. But because we had a history with him—because our emotions were involved—we ignored it as a symptom. Now… well… now, it's just too late." As he spoke, the smile slid off his face, replaced by a much more grim expression.

"Seriously? This Whipple's—it's definitely fatal?" asked Rainie, slightly more curious than concerned.

"Whipple. But Whipple's is okay. Not definitely fatal. It's treatable if caught early. Universally fatal only when ignored," said House, grimly. "No matter how much his paranoia might try to convince him of it, I didn't actually allow this to happen. He did that all by his lonesome."

The only tricky part now was how to tell Tritter that he'd committed negligent suicide. Given his paranoia and rage—the symptoms that ultimately tipped House off—this was not going to be easy. First step: Biopsy the intestine, just to confirm. Then PCR for the presence of _T whippelii_ DNA. When the results confirmed Whipple, as House knew they would, he would figure out how best to tell the patient the news.

David Amberson listened alertly as Rainie Adler told him of Det. Tritter's arrest, a growing sense of both relief and alarm sweeping over him in waves. She didn't feel the need to tell him what Tritter's paranoia had done to her personally in the last few days, and she hesitated to tell him of Tritter's diagnosis, not sure if that knowledge would affect Amberson's decision one way or the other. He should make his decision on his own, unaffected by recent developments. Amberson needed to decide if Tritter should stand trial and be punished for what he'd done to Amberson, not for what he'd been responsible for in the last week.

"So, Mr. Amberson," Rainie said over the phone, after explaining what she wanted of him, "do you think you could bring yourself to do it?" After a long pause fraught with emotion on both ends of the conversation, Amberson gave his assent.

Once he'd made up his mind, Rainie told him that House had diagnosed the police officer, and what that diagnosis meant. And because she was now part of the lawsuit herself, and therefore he would see her in court, she informed him of what had happened to her. Amberson was appalled and, as a result, even more determined to see the man suffer the legal consequences of his actions.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

"I've been better," she said succinctly. "I've been worse."

By the end of the day, all but four of Tritter's victims had agreed to testify in court, swayed by the persuasive arguments and the bravery of Rainie Adler.

Voices reached Michael Tritter: Outside his room, standing near the FBI guard at the open doorway, stood Drs. Chase and Foreman. He craned his neck, as if that would enable him to hear them better.

"How can he do it?" he heard Chase ask, who then repeated himself. "How can he do it?"

Foreman shook his head. "Damned if I know, Chase. I don't know why he took the case in the first place, and I couldn't figure out how he could insist on objectivity even before the last few days. Now, well…"

Tritter perked up, watching closely as Chase nodded, clearly unaware that he was being observed. "And all that crap about 'once an addict…' I'm in charge of House's drugs now, and I can tell you, the guy is far from an addict. Don't know how he manages to function at all—the pain… _Oh, God!_… the pain must be horrific. But he won't take more. You know him—says the drugs keep him from thinking clearly."

Foreman nodded, as Tritter eavesdropped, his heart stuttering in his chest. He couldn't get his mind around it. House wasn't abusing drugs. No, that didn't make sense. Once an addict, always an addict. He believed that. He _knew_ it was true. It had to be true. His mind skittered back to the clippings, the quotes from other doctors talking about House's pain level… and that was _before_… Shaking his head to clear his mind, he honed in on the two doctors still talking outside his room.

"The man tried to ruin his career eight years ago," Chase was saying, "and now this unbelievable crap. All Tritter has done is put up roadblocks that slowed us down in trying to diagnose him. And _still _House kept trying to save the bastard. I just don't get it. After all these years, and I still don't think I'll ever understand the man."

Foreman turned his head, muttering something Tritter couldn't quite hear. Then, quite clearly, he said: "I never would have taken the fucker on in the first place. I'd have gladly dumped him on another hospital. And if he'd pulled that shit on me, I'd have dropped him so fast…"

The voices grew fainter as the two doctors walked off down the hallway, and Tritter couldn't hear any more.

Tritter felt his heart rate speed up, and he couldn't catch his breath. Tightly grasping the blanket on his bed, his mind raced over what he'd just heard. Was it possible… could it conceivably be possible… that he'd gotten it all wrong… that House hadn't held a grudge against him… that he'd actually tried his best to find the answer to Tritter's illness despite, not because of, everything Tritter had done to try to force his hand?

In the cafeteria, Wilson shared a quiet meal with Evan Schuster. Shared a meal was actually an untruth; the two of them merely picked at their food as it grew cold on their plates.

"So that's it then?" asked Evan, his eyes meeting Wilson's. "He's fine?"

Wilson shrugged, giving Evan a wry smile. "Seems to be," he replied. "I've never really understood how his mind works, and even less so now. But once he had a… I guess… a _focus_… for his anger, he doesn't seem suicidal at all. He pushed his team until they got the answer, and as far as I can tell, he's himself again. Of course, I don't know what kinds of conversations he's having with Jacey Liu, but from what I can see, yes, he's fine."

Evan shook his head. "I feel kind of the same way about Rainie. I… I thought sure this would destroy her. You should have seen her after House left. She wouldn't talk, wouldn't respond… nothing. And now, oh, my God, you should have heard her on the phone with those people, convincing them to testify against Tritter. I'm… well, I'm frankly in awe."

Wilson bowed his head, nodding slightly to show he understood. "How they could go through what they've had to endure and even be able to get out of bed in the morning is beyond me. And then to pull themselves together like this…"

Evan grabbed a French fry off of Wilson's plate, pulling it apart in little bits and almost reluctantly putting the pieces one by one in his mouth, chewing slowly.

"I guess you never know what you're capable of until you're put to the test."

Their eyes met, and Wilson's face broke into a lopsided smile. "I'm just glad…" he started. Then, shrugging again, he finished lamely: "…I'm just glad."

Two hours later, the door to Tritter's room slid open and a wheelchair rolled in. Shocked, Tritter sat up in his bed and gaped. It was one thing to see the damage done to House's face and body on television and in newspaper photographs; it was quite a different thing to see it in person.

The man wheeling toward him was frail—there was no doubt about that. A fine tremor shook his body, probably from injuries to his nerves… or perhaps out of anxiety over having to confront his old nemesis. Tritter forced his mouth to close, his eyes raking across the form in front of him. House's neck was tilted slightly to one side and drooped down, as if it was too difficult for him to hold his head up. One shoulder was higher than the other, and Tritter could see bones protruding from places where bones shouldn't show.

The man's face was the worst: It was scarred in layers, cutting through almost every inch of visible skin, shooting up into his hairline and down onto his neck. What was most striking was how much his eyes had changed in eight years. No longer angry and defiant, they were troubled and empty, with a sadness that couldn't be masked.

This was the House Tritter had fantasized about, and yet, now faced with the changes in person, he felt nothing but overwhelming sorrow.

"We meet again," said House in a voice so soft and raspy Tritter could barely hear it.

"We do," said Tritter, suddenly fearful, aware, perhaps for the first time, that the man in front of him had nothing left to lose, but had chosen to continue in his quest for an answer to Tritter's symptoms… whether he needed to or not.

House scanned his patient's face, looking for something that he apparently didn't find.

"We've discovered what's making you sick," he said.

Tritter could scarcely believe it, but House sounded… compassionate. Taking a deep breath and holding it a moment, he tried to stretch out the pause until he was ready to hear what House had to say. Finally, he nodded. _Tell me_, said his eyes.

"You have something called Whipple Disease," said House, not quite looking Tritter in the eye.

"So what's the treatment?" Tritter asked. _Ninety-five percent_, he thought. _He's done it. He's put me into that 95 percent success rate._ He felt both relieved and grateful."How long till I get well?"

House shook his head, almost sadly, it seemed to Tritter. He paused before continuing. "Whipple… if caught early… can be treated and cured," he said at last, measuring his words carefully. Tritter felt a faint hope rising irrationally, but then House continued, swiftly dashing his expectation that this might turn out well. "But… for whatever reason… you've waited so long to get diagnosed that it's now incurable. You're not going to get well,"

_Incurable_. Tritter felt his eyes sting and his breath stop. _He must be wrong_, he thought. And then, he realized that the arrogant drug addict—who was not, apparently, a drug addict, and certainly didn't seem arrogant—was actually trying to break this to him gently. Once the devastating news actually got through, he replayed House's words in his head. _…if caught early…_ _if caught early…_ _if caught early…_ _if caught early…_ In other words, if he'd gotten tested sooner, this… this Whipple thing… might have been treatable. If he hadn't been so sure that House was out to get him. If he had put aside his certainty that he wouldn't be treated fairly in this place and by this doctor. If he hadn't gone running months ago when he found out House's department would be in charge of his case. Between the emotions raging through him and the realization that he'd completely misjudged House, he was suddenly besieged by competing thoughts and feelings.

"Y-You're sure?" he asked, hating the quiver in his voice, hating the fact that House now held the upper hand, after everything he'd done to try to stay in control of the situation.

"I'm sure," said House, looking down at the floor as he rolled back and forth gently in his wheelchair.

Suddenly, Tritter lost any semblance of control, furious that, despite everything he'd done to guarantee that House would treat him fairly, he had been told he had something incurable. Lashing out, his handcuffed wrist rattling against the bedrail, he pulled and struggled and yanked in his effort to get at House, who had scooted rapidly back across the room, and was now gripping the arms of his chair, clearly terrified. "Goddammit, House! I did everything to make you fix me! Fuck it all! This isn't what's supposed to happen! You're supposed to _save _people!"

His body tense and his eyes averted, House drew a few deep breaths, seeming to will himself to calm down. "I can't save everyone," he said at last, a fearful tremor in his soft voice. "If you hadn't been so paranoid, you'd have gotten treated sooner… and this wouldn't have become a death sentence."

The phrase "death sentence" enraged Tritter even more, and he wrenched his captive arm away from the bedrail with a fearful clatter, reaching out with his other, even though he wasn't anywhere near close enough to House to reach him. Although he never felt it, his exertions broke the skin on his wrist, and drops of blood were now dripping down onto the blanket.

House froze, unable to look away from the red splotches. Involuntarily, he glanced down at his own scarred wrist, gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes tight in an attempt to avoid the inevitable flashback of the hours and days he'd spent tugging on his own chains in a futile attempt to get free, to do anything to get away from the torture. He'd pulled and jerked against the chains until his wrists were bloody and raw, more than once actually breaking bones as he struggled against the chains holding him prisoner.

He was so focused on Tritter's wrist and his own that he never heard Brenda Previn slip into the room behind him—she'd overheard the noise and the yelling, and urgently paged for Dr. Cuddy to come to Tritter's room. And he never heard Cuddy slide through the doorway after Brenda, or noticed the two standing close behind him, just in case he needed any assistance, watching as he attempted to retrieve himself from the past and back into the present.

Eventually, both he and Tritter settled down, and then he spoke again. Behind him, Cuddy and Brenda Previn exchanged glances, startled by the compassion they heard, almost unable to believe that the man who had been subjected to so much this week could sound so impartial and professional, given the circumstances. Cuddy, in particular, was struck by the almost sympathetic tone of House's voice. _Had he always been able to speak to patients this way? And if so, why hadn't anyone ever been aware of it before?_

"Look, I know this isn't easy to hear, but we're quite sure about the diagnosis. We completed all of the tests this morning. Whipple is not only causing all of your obvious symptoms, but it's affected your brain, making you angry and paranoid… which might explain…" He nodded his head toward Tritter's bleeding wrist.

_Angry and paranoid?_ Tritter thought. _Angry and paranoid?_ Never good at analyzing his own behavior, Tritter couldn't quite grasp the idea that some of his actions over the past week might have been caused by the same thing that was now killing him. Once again, he struggled against the handcuff that was keeping him at bay. To Cuddy and Previn, he seemed like an enraged and imprisoned animal, almost willing to gnaw off his own limb in order to escape… in this case, to escape the diagnosis and to attack the bearer of the bad news.

As he waited for Tritter to digest the news, House seemed to brace himself, as if expecting Tritter to be able to break free and attack him. Slowly, Tritter stopped fighting. He found himself mesmerized by House's behavior. _Was that how he prepared himself for the torture? _Tritter wondered. _Just tensing a few muscles and taking that deep breath? _When Tritter didn't lash out, House's frame relaxed slightly, and he continued.

"I assume, because of the way you feel about me, you'll want a second opinion. You should get one anyway. Take the diagnosis to any neurologist of your choice, and I'll have the test results sent over. Or you may prefer to have all the tests redone. Either way, it's up to you."

Now that Tritter had used up much of his anger, he seemed drained of energy. His mind drifted back to what he'd overheard when Chase and Foreman chatted outside his door, and the couple of hours he'd spent since, going over the files and thinking about everything he'd done to try to ensure a fair diagnosis… only to discover House had been fair to him all along. Now, he sat passive and numb, slowly acknowledging what he'd heard.

"I realize," House said after a pause, "that I'm not your favorite person, that you probably distrust what I'm telling you. So go get that second opinion."

Tritter nodded stupidly, as if House's words were gibberish.

"I also realize," House continued, "that you're in serious legal trouble, which, frankly, you deserve. However, I want you to know that I won't be pressing charges against you for false arrest or having my home destroyed. Rainie Adler will almost definitely feel differently about what has been done to her, but for me, I consider those actions to be a result of your illness. Your behavior of eight years ago is a different matter, but that's for you and your attorney to discuss."

_He wasn't going to press charges? _Dumbfounded, Tritter couldn't get his head around it. Not only had House continued to try to diagnose him despite the incident eight years ago, but he had just forgiven him for trying to destroy his current life.

Standing near the doorway, Cuddy and Previn were, quite simply, flabbergasted. Cuddy's mouth had dropped open, and she looked bewildered.

"How long?" Tritter asked shakily. "How long do I have?"

House shrugged his oddly shaped shoulders. "Probably not long. Given the swift progression, you may not make it out of the hospital. You might, however, still have months, or at most, a couple of years. You need to be aware that this will not to be painless. A bacterium has infiltrated your central nervous system and is slowly destroying it. If you want more information, someone on my staff can provide you with literature explaining the disease in greater detail."

Tritter swallowed, and without warning, rage surged through him again. Pulling again at the handcuff, he rattled it against the bedrail, bellowing that he would find a way to force House to change the diagnosis. But this time, House didn't cower, obviously aware that it was over, that Tritter couldn't get free and harm him, so he sat calmly in his wheelchair until Tritter flopped back against the pillows, sweating, panting and defeated.

"Frankly, it doesn't matter much," House said at last, looking away and sounding detached, almost clinical, "because the odds are good you'll be spending what's left of your life in jail. Given my own experiences…" House bit back an emotion of some sort. "…I suspect your prison life is not going to be pleasant, even without the disease… They don't like cops in prison…" He clamped his mouth shut, breathing deeply through his nose until he was ready to speak again. "We'll provide you with psychotherapy if you need it, in order to work through your reactions to this diagnosis."

Then, abruptly, House turned to wheel himself out of the room, starting as he crashed into Cuddy, the wheel of his chair bumping into her shin, and then almost running over the pointy toe of her high heel before he could bring the chair to a halt. The two women quickly stepped aside, allowing him to pass, watching stunned as he rolled forcefully toward the elevator, and then they slipped quietly out of the room themselves, leaving Tritter with only himself, his thoughts and his feelings for company.

Tossing the blue folder on the conference table as he wheeled himself up to its head, House casually announced, "This one's done. Got anything else promising?"

On his left, Devi lifted her head from the journal she was reading and, quite simply, gaped. Foreman, on his right, blinked uncertainly, and Chase, at the foot of the table, stared at him, finally bringing himself to say, "Done? I thought we were still discussing the best way to break the news to Tritter?"

House shrugged, his eyes tight with exhaustion and stress. "I got tired of discussing and decided to get it over with."

"You mean you went in there _alone _and broke the news to him?" asked Foreman, dumbfounded.

"Yup. All by myself, Mommy. Although apparently, Cuddy and Nurse Previn decided to provide backup. We've got a few loose ends to tie up, but first let's see if we have anything else that needs our attention. Frankly, this one has been a little more taxing than I would like, and I want to go ho… go s-someplace to rest."

Chase and Foreman exchanged glances.

"Should you have done that?" Chase ventured. "I mean, should you have seen him all alone? You know how paranoid he is—couldn't he find a way to twist this around?"

"Nope," said House, pursing his lips into the semblance of a smile. "I…"

Suddenly, Wilson strode fiercely into the room, interrupting House and his three courtiers. "What the hell were you thinking?" he yelled.

At the unexpectedly loud tone, and seeing the angry figure advancing rapidly toward him, House shrank back, losing the slight control he'd managed to maintain in Tritter's room. Shivering, a whimper escaping his lips, he pulled away from the table and backed his chair toward the wall, just as he'd done when confronted by the three policemen just a couple of days before.

Undeterred, Wilson continued to yell. "The man is a psychopathic menace, and you went in there _alone_? I repeat, what the hell were you thinking?"

House couldn't catch his breath, his hands shaking uncontrollably, he began to slide out of the chair. "W-Wilson…" he whimpered.

Quickly sizing up the situation, Foreman jumped up and placed himself between the furious Wilson and the trembling House.

"No—what the hell are _you_ thinking?" he roared. "The man has had enough. Back off!"

Shocked, both at his own behavior and at Foreman's response, Wilson did just that. He froze in place, his eyes shifting back and forth between Foreman, who was looming over him, and House, who was shrinking into the wall.

"I-I…" he stuttered.

"Don't you dare come near him until you've calmed down," warned Foreman, as the half-standing Devi and Chase, who had started to rush to House before Foreman beat them to it, observed the scene in fascination. "I don't know what's got your knickers in a twist, but you're not going to get anywhere by yelling at him, and you know it."

Puffing with anger, Wilson started to argue with Foreman, when he was riveted by the sight of House, terrified by his best friend's behavior. Abruptly, Wilson dropped his head, ashamed of himself. He started to speak, gesturing uselessly with his hands until they, too, dropped down.

Behind Foreman, House was taking deep, gulping breaths of air, his whole body quivering in fear. Quietly, Chase and Devi placed themselves around him, gently touching his shoulders and back reassuringly. After a long couple of minutes, he seemed to return to what passed for normal these days.

"Now, if you can bring yourself to be calm, what's this all about?" asked Foreman, still acting as a shield between House and his best friend.

Wilson looked embarrassed. The second Cuddy had reported to him what she'd seen in Tritter's room, he'd completely lost control. Years' worth of fear and anger poured out, and he'd responded without thinking about the consequences. The stress of the last four days had been intense, but the last thing he ever meant to do was take it out on House. Embarrassed, he thought back a few days, and realized that perhaps he had more in common with Foreman than he'd been willing to admit.

"I… he… he went to talk to Tritter alone!" he said, with considerably less vehemence. "Anything could have happened!"

A soft, shaky voice rose up from behind Foreman. "But it didn't, did it, Wilson? It didn't."

Looking around Foreman to the quaking figure in the wheelchair, Wilson's eyes pleaded for forgiveness. "No, House, it didn't… but it _could_ have…"

Foreman moved slightly to one side, allowing Wilson to see House more clearly, but when he took a step forward, Foreman planted his arm in Wilson's chest to stop him. Shaking his head, Foreman said, "No," he said more softly, his voice tinged with empathy now that their roles were reversed. "You don't go near him until I'm sure you won't frighten him anymore. He's had enough…. and he deserves better."

Behind him, unseen by anyone in the room, House smiled. _He might turn out okay after all_, he thought. Then he glanced at Wilson, and another smile graced his lips. _Finally,_ he thought, _Finally, Wilson has stopped tiptoeing around me._ "It's okay," he said to Foreman. "Wilson would never hurt me."

A little unwillingly, Foreman stepped out of the way to allow Wilson to pass. Instead of walking forward, Wilson dropped suddenly to his knees and skidding forward until he was face to face with House in the chair. Slowly, carefully, he reached out his hand, gently brushing the side of House's face soothingly.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his eyes searching House's face for a forgiveness he didn't feel he deserved. "I didn't mean…"

Much to his surprise, the eyes that met his own weren't frightened—they were sympathetic. "It's okay," said House. "I get it. And it's about time you felt comfortable enough to be yourself around me. Now get up off the floor, dust off your knees, roll me to the table and let me finish what I was about to say."

Once ensconced back at the table, House picked up where he left off, this time with Wilson joining the others in paying close attention. After taking a sip of coffee, House reached into his pocket and pulled out his iPod.

"_This _is why I wasn't concerned about going in there alone," he said, mischievously, clearly enjoying the confused looks around the table.

"I don't get it," said Wilson. "Why would an iPod protect you from a deranged patient?"

"Well, it sure as hell couldn't protect me from having a meltdown, but it did protect me in other ways." He unplugged the microphone from the iPod, stuck the gizmo into the speaker base and, after fiddling with it a moment, pressed play.

_We meet again,_ came House's soft voice through the speakers.

_We do_.

_We've discovered what's making you sick._

"Are you serious?" asked Cuddy, her voice beginning to rise. "The man tried… almost successfully… to kill himself less then a week ago? What on earth makes you think he can leave this hospital?" Then, more softly, "What makes you think he won't try again?"

Wilson shrugged. "I just do, Lisa. He's in even more intensive therapy with Jacey Liu, and more than that, the reason he tried to kill himself is being dealt with."

"I… I don't get it."

"Look at this way: He found within himself the rage—the truly ugly feelings he'd been jamming away deep inside. Once that lid popped off, he scared himself… felt he was no better than Thompson… that he was capable of doing terrible things. It terrified him. You know House. Even before all this, he wasn't exactly Mr. Touchy-Feely. When he saw how Tritter's paranoia had damaged Rainie, he mistakenly decided that his very presence was hurting the people he was close to. And somehow, at that moment, his fragile mind slipped a gear. In some way that we'll never fathom, he thought it would easier to take himself out of the equation than to actually deal with those feelings and what they brought up for him."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Cuddy, twitching her fingers impatiently. "I get all that. What I don't get is how you can think he's no longer a danger to himself, just because he solved Tritter's case."

Wilson struggled to find a way to explain it. "It's what we told him when he woke up: He'll hurt us more by killing himself than by staying alive. He went through all of that to keep us safe. As much as we have trouble believing it, even now, House will do whatever it takes to keep us safe. And if he believes it hurts us less for him to stay alive, even with all his physical and emotional pain, he'll do it. He's made up his mind now. He won't try again."

Cuddy sighed, then nodded her head in agreement. "Fine. I'll let him go… but only into your care. You are responsible for him."

Wilson smiled. "Yes," he said. "I am."

"Let's go home," said Rainie, reaching out her hand to rest it on House's arm. Her bruises were beginning to heal, and she was ready.

House stared at her as if he thought her mind had just snapped. "What home?" he said in a monotone, his voice reflecting the exhaustion he felt now that the case was over.

"Our home," she said, as if it were obvious.

Bewildered, House tilted his head slightly and looked at her, his brows furrowed.

"We don't have one," he said, sounding as if he was explaining this to a small child. _She's lost touch with reality_, he thought, wondering if he should call Jacey Liu.

Her rich contralto laugh caught him by surprise.

"Says you," she said. "Let's try this again. If it's safe now, are you willing to go back there?"

He looked at her, perplexed. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if our home is miraculously fixed up and has new safety features, are you willing to live there again, given everything that's happened?" This time, she was the one talking as if to a small child.

He absorbed her words. Could he? Could he return to their former safe haven, knowing that it—that _she_—had been violated there?

"Are _you_? Are _you _willing to go back?" His answer depended on hers. He searched her face intensely, trying to figure out what was going on in her head.

She inhaled a very deep breath, pursing her lips a moment before blowing the air out forcefully. "Yes," she said, and she sounded surprisingly sure of herself. "Yes, I am."

"But… they destroyed it. There's no home to go back to."

His brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to interpret her expression.

After a moment of trying find the right words, she said, "It's just… well, _things_ that were destroyed. It's just stuff. And you seem to forget—we're rich as Croesus. Evan and I have been working on it for several days now. Still a little rough—so they tell me—and it won't ever look quite the same—but if you pay people enough money, a lot can be done in a few days. We've even got a double security door, plus an alarm system on all the doors and windows, so no one can get in. I took the extra precaution of having them installed on Wilson's unit as well."

A little overwhelmed, he sat quietly for a very long moment, taking it in, thinking about what their place looked like the last time he saw it, and whether or not he wanted to be there if it wasn't quite the same, and if it had these new miserable memories connected to it. He certainly never wanted to go back to his old place on Baker Street, not after Thompson's men had turned it into a horror show of pain and suffering. Which led him to Rainie. He genuinely couldn't understand what was motivating her? How could she consider returning there, even for a moment, much less to move in again?

"Why?" he asked, puzzled. "We could live anywhere. We could buy a house. Hell, we could buy an estate with a security gate and beefy guards to watch it. Why go back there, after everything that's happened? Why?"

He saw the glint in her eye as a determined, tight little smile crossed her face. "Because I'm stubborn," she said, by way of explanation. "I wouldn't let Thompson win, and I sure as hell won't let a lightweight like Tritter win." She paused. "Besides… it's our home."

House thought of the place they had created right next door to Wilson's, of the piano… _oh, God, what had they done to the piano?_... of Rainie's art glass, his books and music… How could a few days and a pot full of money recreate that?

Okay. So she felt she could return. But could he? Could he re-enter the place that had seemed so secure and yet was not? Could he ever be there without imagining what Rainie had gone through, without wondering if someone else could get in and hurt them? Would a double security door and alarm system soothe him enough?

Rainie watched the emotions flit across his face. Finally, she reached out and laid her good hand on his forearm.

"Hey," she said. "What's the worst that could happen? If we find we can't stand it, we can always go buy that estate and hire those security guards. In the meantime, I want to go home. I want to sleep in my big, fluffy bed, and hear the birds singing outside the window. I'm tired of the hospital and I don't want to live in a hotel, where you and I both know that every staff person and guest will stare at us and whisper. Come on, Greg. Let's go home."

"Well, since you put it that way," said House, breathing deeply, making up his mind. "Okay."

Lisa Cuddy heard a weird squeaking noise coming toward her, and when she looked up from the paperwork on her desk, found herself face to face with the (once again) head of her Diagnostic Department.

"I need to circumvent hospital rules," he said bluntly, with no preface.

Confused, she paused a moment before responding. "I—uh—thought you'd already diagnosed Det. Tritter?" she said, turning the sentence into a question by the time she got to the end of it.

"Did," said House. "Not those rules. Rainie and I want to leave through the back way. We don't want to go through the lobby when we're discharged. Which should be any minute now."

"Okaaaaay," said Cuddy. "But why?" Without realizing she was doing it, she twirled her pen in the air nervously.

"Don't need everybody gawking, and especially don't need people applauding Rainie for managing to survive being beaten and raped. Just draws attention to it, and she doesn't need that right now."

For the third (or was it fourth) time this week, Cuddy found herself marveling at how good House was at understanding what makes people tick, at how very sensitive he was. _How could I not notice this?_ she wondered.

"Sure," she said. "Do whatever makes you the most comfortable. You're going to do what you want anyway."

A hint of grin graced his lips, then he swiveled abruptly and wheeled himself back out of her office.

Wilson, Evan and Rainie met him at the service elevator. He looked at each in turn: Rainie in her wheelchair, bandaged and bruised, and Wilson and Evan standing close to each other behind her chair.

"Done," he said. "Let's go home."

THE END

"The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong."—Mahatma Gandhi


End file.
